The Mirage of the Opera (A Gender-Bent Retelling)
by ArtistForever
Summary: The women of Paris are legendarily beautiful, with the exception of Erika - whose deformed facial features have condemned her to a life in the cellars of an opera house. From within the walls of the opera, the musically proficient Erika finds a pupil in Christian - a promising young tenor. What can happen when a beautiful mirage becomes a frightening reality? Rated T for themes.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** **I've been a fan of** ** _Phantom of the Opera_** **for several years. Also, when done well, I'm a fan of gender bends. Over the past week, I've toyed with the idea of casually re-telling the tale of PotO with the genders reversed. Yes, this sounds stupid and clichéd, I know. However, I think** ** _Phantom_** **'s story could work well with a female anti-hero. With the pressure that has always been on females to look beautiful, a horrible facial deformity would be all the more devastating. It feels odd writing fanfiction again, after such a long break. I hope this "grand return" to the world of fanfiction can be worth it to you, my reader. Enjoy.**

Prologue:

Sunlight stung Erika's eye as she attempted to peek through the gap in the curtains. Applause and laughter erupted from the audience as the current act came to an end. The ten-year-old ducked into the shadow of a torch as juggling conjoined sisters, Remedy and Charity, bowed their way off the stage. The smiles on their faces vanished as their gaze fell on Erika, and swiftly they turned and walked away without an acknowledgement.

"And now, _mesdames et messieurs_ , may I have your attention?" the Carnival Master's demanding voice sheared the smoky air. "This next spectacle is among the rarest you may ever lay eyes on."

Erika pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Despite the summer heat, she felt cold.

"Three years ago, a woman came to me and exchanged this strange creature for a bottle of red wine," the Carnival Master spoke to the silent, waiting crowd from beyond the curtains.

Erika let the shawl slip from her shoulders. That was her cue. She inhaled deeply and stepped onto the stage. Blazing daylight overpowered her senses – they were so accustomed to the dark, the sun was practically blinding. The crowd stirred and muttered as Erika made her entrance.

The Carnival Master's hand urged Erika closer to the audience. The girl's sight still hadn't adjusted, but she could sense hundreds of eyes on her. Her breathing became hot and suffocating underneath her bandages – strips of brown gauze wrapped around her head, leaving only her left eye exposed.

"I warn the women in the audience to avert their eyes immediately," the Carnival Master kept a heavy hand on Erika's shoulder, the other hand undoing the binding of her gauze. "I give to you…the Faceless Girl!"

With a few rough movements, the gauze loosened and hung around Erika's neck. She closed her eyes, finally able to take a full breath. The first reactions came from women who hadn't taken the Carnival Master's advice. They screamed in horror as soon as the bandages fell away. Men gasped, babes began to cry in fear, and the entire audience stepped several paces back from the stage.

Erika wanted to run, to flee from the eyes and the bright light that exposed her to the world. The Carnival Master's hand held her in place.

"The face of a demon, indeed," he combed his beard with his fingers, "but would you believe, ladies and gentlemen, that this creature possesses the voice of an angel?"

The crowd didn't change its reaction. Quite a few audience members were trying to revive the women who had fainted. The Carnival Master nodded to the piano player seated on the far side of the stage. Music drowned out the sounds of the flustered audience, replacing it with a lively tune. Attention returned to the stage, and the eyes were there again…staring at Erika.

Erika's fingers tapped the outside of her thigh through the skirt of her dress, dancing along with the notes. She knew this piece by heart, and allowed herself to lull into a trance as she recited the melody with her fingertips. Her trance was shaken when the Carnival Master's fingertips pressed into her shoulder, giving her the message: _Sing, damn you._

Performances were the only time Erika's half-formed lips had the freedom to move. So, she sang. She knew there would be no applause for her, not for the creature people paid to be horrified by. But still, she sang.

* * *

A hard knock rattled the door of the small carnie wagon Erika called her room. The child quickly set her quill in the inkwell and blew out her candle. With her wagon set at the end of the caravan, the only one who ever came near her during off-hours was the Carnival Master. He must have seen the light from her candle and known she was up late again. Erika jumped into her hammock and threw the quilt over her head, preparing for sleep.

The knocking came again. Erika's breathing hitched. Normally, when she was caught staying up past curfew, she would go without punishment as long as she went to bed as soon as the Carnival Master started knocking. A second knock only meant a punishment was coming. Erika waited for the lock to come undone, but it never did. Instead came a third knock, and a voice.

It was a man's voice, but not the Carnival Master's. "Hello? Is anyone in there?"

Erika sat up, alert but unsure of what to do. No one, not even the other freak shows, came to visit her; especially not at night. She didn't recognize this voice at all, and she wasn't allowed to speak with anyone outside the carnival.

"Who's there?" Erika asked into the darkness.

The distinct _click_ of the door lock. Only the Carnival Master had a key to her door. Was he with this person? He must've been. The door opened, but strangely no lantern light followed the two sets of footsteps inside the wagon. It was late at night, why didn't they have a lantern? Erika began to feel uneasy.

"Are you the one they call the 'Faceless Girl'?" the man's voice asked. He was now right beside her bed, shrouded in the night.

"Yes."

The candle on the table suddenly flicked to life. Erika saw the two figures standing beside her in the instant the candlelight was born. A man dressed in a neat black suit, and a small boy – about half Erika's age. She recognized neither of them. With a gasp, she threw her hands up to cover her face from these strangers. Her gauze was sitting in a basket on the opposite side of the wagon.

"You can't be in here," Erika muttered behind her hands. "Please, _monsieur_ , you need to leave."

There was a pause.

"Is this yours?" The man's voice asked.

" _Monsieur_?"

"This score. Is it yours?"

Erika tensed. She knew the man was talking about her composition. She'd left it sitting out on the table in her rush. It was her first attempt at an aria, its melody inspired by the song she sang at every performance.

" _Oui_ , _monsieur_ ," Erika said softly, "it's mine."

Another pause. Erika could hear her breathing ventilate between her fingers.

"Young lady, this is quite an impressive piece," the man said. "For someone of your age…where did you learn to compose?"

Erika slumped further into the hammock. She jumped when she felt a tap on her knee. Her middle and index finger opened on the left side, and she turned her head to see the little boy reluctantly holding something out to her.

"We got this for you," the boy said. He pulled his hand back as soon as Erika took the item from it.

It was a carnival mask, one of the cheap party favors sold at the souvenir booth during performances. Gaudy red lace bordered the mask and bright orange fabric decorated its face. It produced a similar look of disgust on Erika's partly-exposed face that others had when they looked at her.

"We'll give you some privacy." The man closed his eyes and covered the eyes of the boy.

Erika was grateful for something to hide herself, but she also had taste. She picked at the loose cheap fabric of the mask, ripping it off to expose the smooth white plaster beneath. Only then was she comfortable putting on the garment.

"Thank you, _monsieur_ ," Erika was astounded to have a covering she could breathe easily through.

The man opened his eyes and smiled at Erika. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Monsieur Giry," he bowed and patted the boy's head. "This is Marc Giry, my son."

Erika nodded in greeting. "My pleasure." She noticed Monsieur Giry was holding her sheet music. She stared at him, afraid he might damage her hard work.

"And what might your name be, _mademoiselle_?" Giry asked. "My son and I have seen you on stage several times to hear you sing, but they've never once given us your name."

"Why must you know?" It had been three years since anyone asked Erika for her given name. The last time she'd given it, her mother had signed a life-long contract with the carnival for her.

"Ah, well, it doesn't matter right now," Monsieur Giry offered Erika his hand, "we can't dawdle here much longer. Follow us, we're taking you away from here."

Erika's jaw hung agape behind the false beauty of the pale mask. Away from here? But what of the Carnival Master? The other carnies? Her contract?

Giry gently rolled the score and concealed it inside his pocket. "We don't want to leave these behind," he said, "treasure isn't meant to be abandoned once it's been found."

With a hidden smile, Erika rolled out of the hammock and slid on her shoes, ready and willing to follow this man and his son to the ends of the Earth.

The trio stole through the darkened city streets, towards an unknown destination. The mask Erika had been gifted clung uncomfortably to the unblemished side of her face, making her head and neck feel unnecessarily hot as she tried to keep pace with Giry. Although better than the heavy gauze, she wished to hide only her disfiguration. She was tired of the restrictions a full-facial covering posed. She wanted at least for her voice to be free, even if the rest of her needed to be hidden away.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

 _ **~ 16 Years Later ~**_

The Opera Populaire was at its quietest between productions. There were no audience members to swarm the building, no loud set construction underway, and no actors bickering with one another over trivial matters. These brief weeks of peace were the thorn in Erika's side. Yes, the building's emptiness allowed freer range to walk about; but it was an idle time.

Luckily, the restless period was at an end. Suspended on the highest catwalk, Erika watched as the most recent audition shuffled off-stage. The woman's head was lowered as she exited, clearly aware of how horrid her attempt at a solo had been.

"What do you think, Andrée?" The voice of Florence echoed from the front row of seats. "How would you rate Mademoiselle Handele?"

"Her father could be a possible investor," Andrée's voice responded with a sigh. "We'll give her a choral role, never mind the yowling cat in her throat."

As the two women laughed together, Erika scowled at them from above. These new managers of the Opera Populaire hadn't learned just yet, but the opera was not entirely theirs. A new investor wasn't needed, and the integrity of a performance was too precious to sacrifice for the greed of these business partners.

"Why must I audition?!"

Erika exhaled through the nostrils of her mask as Carlo strode to center stage. The heavyset Italian tenor waved his arms around as he spit fire at the new managers.

"I _made_ dis opera, and I audition like a novice?!" Carlo continued to complain, his heavy accent rolling from his mouth.

" _Monsieur_ , we must re-evaluate the cast we've inherited from your former manager," Florence said.

"Indeed, we must decide who is right for our productions and who is not." Andrée added.

"You do not _dare_ to fire me!" Carlo boomed.

"Of course not, _monsieur_ ," Florence said, "it's only protocol."

That finally seemed to cool Carlo's head. He straightened his back, spread his feet apart, and inhaled. As the tenor sang his first note, Erika reached for the ropes stretching from the fly system. With one hard tug, the pulley to one particular rope came undone. As the pulley screeched and spun, the curtains fell in from the wings and closed themselves in front of Carlo.

Erika had to contain a laugh as she watched Carlo tear open the curtains and stomp out to continue screaming at the managers. What exactly he said to them was hard to distinguish, a combination of his rapid speech and his frequent dips into his native language.

"Yes, thank you," Erika heard Andrée say, cutting off the rabid tenor, "we heard everything we needed to hear. Rehearsals start tomorrow morning."

His audition well and truly over, Carlo marched outside – his nose in the air. It took several minutes for the owners of the opera to figure out the fly system; but eventually the curtains were pulled back aside.

"Florence," Andrée asked as the women returned to their seats, "you don't suppose what the former manager told us was true?"

"Nonsense," Florence snapped at the shorter woman, "that was nothing more than a defective pulley. Remind me to have Josephine look at that before rehearsals start."

"Let's just get on with the auditions," Andrée grumbled, "who's next on the list?"

Florence turned over a few papers before holding one out to her partner. "One 'Christian Daaé'. Auditioning as a tenor, it says."

"Oh, very well," Andrée took the paper and inspected it herself. "Send him in."

Erika casually rested against the railing of the catwalk. From what she'd observed that day, tenor auditions were fruitless tasks. The managers' taste didn't call for many tenors – save for Carlo – to be a part of the cast. Just as well, there didn't seem to be many talented tenors in Paris anymore. Perhaps that was why Carlo drew in such large crowds.

Soft footfalls once again travelled to center stage far below Erika's shoes. He was a young man, with a head of long brown hair. His clothing wasn't that of someone of reputation, his jacket was faded from the sun and the soles of his shoes squeaked across the wooden stage. That was all Erika could see of him, too far away to notice any finer details than these.

"Your name is Christian Daaé?" Florence asked from the seating.

There was no verbal response. The man simply nodded.

"You may proceed when ready," Andrée motioned with her hand.

There was a long moment of hesitation, the man only standing there without uttering a word – let alone a note.

"Whenever you're ready, _monsieur_ ," Florence prompted, sounding impatient.

The series of notes the man then sang were astounding. That is…astoundingly similar to the sound of a rusty door hinge. Erika winced at the off-key melody and even observed the managers doing something similar.

" _Just stop him, you fools!"_ Erika thought. When the women continued to do nothing, Erika lost her patience. She had just closed her gloved hand around the curtain rope a second time, when she heard it.

There! A fluctuation in the singer's voice. It spoke to her, and she recognized the language. She heard the remnants of a voice that had once been there, partially buried underneath the hideous pitch-shifts and falsettos. Something had happened to this young man to break his voice, turning it into the atrocity echoing from the rafters. She leaned further on the railing, listening to his inflections with rapture.

Florence finally held up her hand, silencing the man. "Yes, Monsieur Daaé, thank you for that audition."

"Unfortunately," Andrée said, "we don't have any present openings for tenors. Perhaps, if you were to come back for our next production-"

Erika reached into a pocket of her trousers and withdrew two small grey beads. Seconds after they left her leather-covered hand, they burst into flashes of light at the feet of Andrée and Florence. The women screamed and leapt backwards from their seats into the row behind, sending papers flying. Meanwhile, the poor tenor stood in a daze – unsure of what had just occurred. As Florence and Andrée collected themselves, they stared around the room with wide-open eyes.

"We'll…we'll see you first thing tomorrow morning, monsieur. Welcome to our chorus." Florence gulped, fixing stands of greying hair that had come undone from her bun.

Erika smirked, the left corner of her lip curling into the inside of her white plaster mask. Good, these new managers were starting to learn how the Opera Populaire was operated.

The man bowed at the waist and casually stepped off the stage. Erika watched him leave through the lobby doors at the back of the theatre. She swiftly left the catwalk through a small door hidden in the backstage wall, entering the maze of secret passages that had lain forgotten for decades until she repurposed them as her own private highway around the opera house.

Years of experience navigating the passages led her behind the walls of the lobby within minutes. Gently pulling a black cloth from the wall, Erika peered out the trick mirror situated in the lobby. From the outside, it looked no different than any other decorative mirror in the room. But where Erika stood, it was the perfect window into the world beyond her own.

She saw the tenor sitting nearby in an armchair, his head in his hands. She could see him more clearly from this vantage point: he was slender built, and his brown hair was tied with black ribbon into a long ponytail. Erika was fascinated. This man's singing voice had such a hidden beauty behind it, she could sense it. All he needed was someone to teach him, to draw that beauty outward.

Erika looked around the crowded lobby. It was full of both established cast members, come for their "re-evaluation", as well as young hopefuls. She couldn't speak to him now; there'd be too many witnesses. She needed to get him alone somewhere in the opera house. Someplace meant only for him…a dressing room, perhaps? Yes, that would have to be it.

A plan began to brew in Erika's mind. She needed to speak with this young man, and make some form of contact with him. However, she couldn't get his attention on her own. She needed to form a common contact between them, and Erika had just the right person in mind: Marc Giry, her foster brother.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

 _"I request an audience with your son tonight after closing. See to it he is not followed; Josephine Buquet has been prying again._

 _~ Mirage "_

Such was the note Erika left Monsieur Giry, folded and slipped between the cushions of seat two in Box Five. Their system of unspoken communication had been formed through the years. The greying box keeper would check the seat for notes during his rounds and, when necessary, would leave his written replies behind the loose molding of the ballet's rehearsal room.

Recently, Erika had taken to signing her notes as "Mirage" in reference to the word Josephine had used to describe her. Earlier that season – just as employees were returning to their shifts – Erika had caught the scene shifter watching her from the catwalks. Buquet had attempted to give chase, but Erika had turned a corner and vanished into a passage disguised as the wall. Giry had relayed to Erika the ramblings Josephine had gone on the following day, including the title of "Mirage" that had been bestowed upon her. It was a title Erika accepted with indifference.

Erika looked to the grandfather clock ticking away in the corner. Closing had just finished upstairs, so Marc wouldn't be long. In the meantime, Erika focused on the keys of her organ – sending out melodies to resonate inside the walls of the cavernous third cellar she called her home. Every so often, she paused to scratch a note from her sheet music or add a harmony here and there. She was only pulled from her work when she heard heavy footfalls on the stone staircase behind her.

"Ah, Marc. I've been wait-," Erika's sentence faded as she turned in her seat.

The young man, five years her junior, was there as requested. The light sweat clinging to his brow indicated he'd been practicing, possibly right until closing. Even before rehearsal, the _danseur_ was pushing himself. Either that, or it was fear that forced the water from his pores. What chased away Erika's words, however, was not the young Giry. It was his father behind him.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Erika asked her unexpected guest.

Monsieur Giry descended the rest of the stairs, a lantern swinging from a wooden pole held in his hand. The light became obsolete as it met the dozens of candelabras Erika kept burning. "Discussion needs to be had," the box keeper answered, standing beside Marc.

"Certainly it does, _monsieur_ ," Erika crossed a booted foot over her knee, "but I believe I asked to speak with your son."

With a slight nod, Giry nudged his son forward. Marc took a few rigid steps closer and gulped his throat clear of saliva. "You…wanted to see me?"

"Indeed," Erika sighed.

Marc twitched as Erika rose suddenly from her instrument. As she began organizing her sheet music, he reached for a page – attempting to assist her. The force of Erika's hand constricting around his knuckles caused him to forget the idea. Erika guarded her compositions like a starving dog guards its bone.

"A tenor has been added to our ensemble," Erika said coolly, setting her score aside.

Monsieur Giry clucked his tongue. "Yes, he was hired in a flash it seems."

Erika threw a smug grin over her shoulder. "You were watching, _monsieur_?"

"You've never missed an audition," Monsieur Giry said, "that's why I'm shocked. Why demand that Daaé boy, of all the other auditioning tenors? You heard for yourself how poor he is."

"I simply see his potential," Erika adjusted the ruffled sleeves of her tailcoat, "every master has his pupil. This boy will be mine."

"You believe the boy can be taught?" Giry chuckled.

The subterranean air of the cellars was clinging to Marc's hot skin. He picked at his shirt uncomfortably. "How could you teach him?" he piped up. "Aren't you concerned he might…be afraid?" The man of twenty-one flinched as Erika swiped a gleam of water from his blonde hair.

"Oh, little Marc," Erika crooned, flicking the perspiration from her glove, "that's why I need you. I need you to find him at rehearsals tomorrow and bring him to the _danseur_ dressing room. Christian Daaé, remember that name. Christian. Daaé."

"What am I to do there?" Marc asked, his back stiff.

"Speak to him," Erika replied, "coax as much information as possible about himself. I'll be listening."

Erika saw Monsieur Giry shake his head out of the corner of her eye. She couldn't tell if it was out of good humor or exasperation. Considering her actions that day, it could've been either.

"You see, _messieurs_ ," Erika addressed both her caretakers, "that's the beauty of a mirage. It appears as whatever the witness wants it to be."

* * *

"I'm from Sweden, actually," Christian said, sipping his teacup's dark beverage, "the town of Uppsala, to be exact."

"Really, that far?" Marc set the enamelware coffee pot back on the counter. "What's brought you to Paris, then?"

"I've been here," Christian replied, "we roamed about Europe for most of my childhood before settling down." He laughed at the back of his throat, his gaze blearily staring into his cup. "My parents were travelling performers. The three of us were an act."

The two men had become fast acquaintances during the day's rehearsal. Now on their lunch break, Marc had stolen Christian away to the male dancers' dressing room – a key to which he'd been supplied by his father. As Marc refilled his own cup with coffee, he looked at his reflection in the large mirror embedded in the wall. He quickly averted his eyes and took up a seat beside the new chorus recruit.

Erika was watching from the opposite side of the reflective surface of glass. She had access to at least one false mirror in every dressing room, often using them to eavesdrop on the performers. This had led to several cast members being fired in the past, once Erika had brought their behaviors to the former manager's attention. Now, she knelt with the black cloth folded in her arms, soaking in every detail Christian relayed to her cohort.

Marc forced down a steaming swallow of his drink. "Performers? Were you part of a carnival?"

"Local fairs, mostly," Christian said, "before my father died. Mother and I moved to Paris afterwards, and decided to stay. Mother never stopped playing her violin, however. It was her passion."

"Is your mother well, Christian?" Marc swirled the liquid in his cup.

Christian let out a heavy breath, what was left of his mirth escaping his body with it. "She died a month ago."

Erika perked up.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Marc clenched his jaw, uncomfortable again, "I know it won't help, but I know what it's like to lose a mother."

Erika had to roll her eyes at Marc's naivety. It was better to never have a mother than to have one with a drunken head and hateful eyes.

"Where you ever told about the Angel of Music, Marc?"

Marc furrowed his brow and shook his head.

Christian finished his coffee. "My mother read me that story when I was a lad. The Angel would sing songs to children as they fell asleep, and give them good fortune."

Erika shifted quietly on her haunches, clinging to every word.

"Mother often promised she would beg God to make her the Angel of Music when she went to heaven," Christian rested his arm on the counter, massaging his temple. After a long pause, he continued: "God must have said 'no'."

Erika placed the curtain back over her window to the dressing room. She scratched her fingertips over the foundations of the wall; her signal.

"What was that?" Christian's voice asked, muffled behind the wall.

"Just…some rats, I suppose." Marc's voice responded. "Oh, look at the time. They'll be missing us upstairs."

Erika waited until the sounds of clinking dishes and shuffling feet faded to an end before setting off though her labyrinth behind the walls. Marc had done what she'd asked, and he would be rewarded. Perhaps she could arrange a slightly more prominent role for him in this current production. Monsieur Giry being box keeper, of course, had nothing to do with his son's rising career as a dancer for the company. Often times, it was a wonder the aging man kept his own career. At least, it was a wonder to most. Offering bribes to the managerial staff guaranteed Erika's envoys would stay where she could reach them.

As for then, she needed to wait – to bide her time until that evening. The Mirage had chosen a form.


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

She'd tracked him, pinpointing the sounds of his worn-out soles as they walked the length of the halls. She crept through the passage, running her gloved hand along the inside of the wall. She could feel the vibrations of his footsteps in her fingertips. Judging by their intensity, she was walking right alongside him. Christian's footsteps halted suddenly. Erika did the same and pressed her ear to the wood and plaster.

"Oh, Marc," his voice came through clear enough to be understood, "have you seen my overcoat?"

Erika heard a reply in the distinct cadence of Marc Giry's gentle voice. His distance from the wall was too much for his words to be anything more than muffled sounds to Erika's ear.

"Alright, thank you anyway," Christian replied. Quickly, his footfalls began again.

Erika continued to stalk Christian's movements, following him around a corner. _"Excellent, he's headed right for it."_ Perhaps Marc had given him the proper location in that exchange. After the cast had returned to rehearsal, Erika had made off with a faded blue jacket from the lobby's coat tree. She'd seen Christian audition in it the day before, and knew he'd be looking for it that evening. She'd been sure to put it somewhere no one would look, unless they really needed what they were looking for.

So far, Christian had scoured most of the building's floors – retracing his steps throughout the day, no doubt. Closing was underway, and everyone else had retired to their homes – but not Christian. He was still in search of his overcoat. Going by the raggedness of the rest of his outfit, one could assume the sun-faded jacket was the only one he owned. The place Christian was on his way to now was surely being searched out of desperation. The stage had been empty all day, not even the scene shifter had been at her post. No logical reason was dictating Christian's steps now, only the fact that his overcoat needed to be found.

"Now how did this end up here?"

There was a door that opened up into the backstage quarters from the inner wall. Erika silently nudged this open, just a crack, when she heard Christian speak. He was several feet away, slipping on the jacket she had left strewn over a large prop.

Erika reached a hand through the tiny space she allowed herself in the doorframe, grabbing hold of a line of thread she'd placed beside the hidden entrance. With a well-executed tug, the wicks of all the stage candles sparked and ignited at once.

Christian gasped and startled as the stage beside him was suddenly aglow with dozens of burning candles. Erika watched the young man carefully step onto the stage, curious yet timid of the mysterious wonder. It was known to one besides the Girys, but the hidden woman had several hidden talents. The talent she chose to implement then was one she rarely used, but was practiced in nonetheless: she threw her voice into the theatre, and sang a melodic tune in vowels.

Now Christian stood dazed in the middle of the stage, staring dumbfounded out into the empty audience. An arm of his jacket hung limp at his side, and he never bothered to finish putting it on as the disembodied voice resonated throughout the darkened space beyond the stage lights.

With the atmosphere finally set for her illusion, Erika brought her melody to a close. "Hello, Christian."

Christian stumbled back. "Who are you? How do you know who I am?"

"You know me, Christian," Erika sent her voice out, "The one who watched over you in your distress, the one who sang you to sleep so many nights."

"Oh, God, you…can't possibly…"

"Your mother promised you, did she not?"

Christian fell to his knees, weeping into his hands. "Oh my God…" he panted, "Oh my God…"

"I've come to you now, after a full month," Erika continued, "because you're in need of me. Is that so, my child?"

"I'm trying to do as you asked me," Christian swiped at his eyes, "you always told me I had a strong voice. You wanted me to audition for the opera, to sing again after Father died. Now here I am, the laughing stalk of the cast. I didn't plan to be hired. My voice has been sour for years."

"Have you thought, my child, that perhaps it was I who altered the hearts of your superiors?"

"Those flashes of angelic light…" Christian looked up, "but why?"

"You are destined for greatness, Christian," Erika's echo crooned, "although you may not yet see it. I'm here now, child. Your Angel of Music has come to help you."

"I don't mean to doubt you, Angel, but I don't see how you can."

"Allow me to tutor you," Erika insisted. "Here, every night until the end of the performance. It was my dying wish to see you perform in an opera. Won't you want to sing your best…for me?"

Christian slowly rose to his feet, still staggering under the weight of the situation. He slid his second arm into his sleeve and buttoned the jacket up the front. He looked ready to flee from the surreal confrontation.

Erika thought fast: "You look well in your father's coat."

Christian was once again staring out into the dark theatre. It was evident Erika's guess of the coat's origin had been correct.

"Christian…" Erika said after a moment of his stunned silence, "won't you sing for me?"

The young man took a few steps for the exit, hesitated, then return to center stage – casting off his jacket has he did. Pushing his shoulders back, he "sang" the first few notes of _Ave Maria_ , which had been his audition piece.

"No, no, no," Erika cringed, but kept her voice gentle, "you're straining too much. Relax the diaphragm and take much deeper breaths during beats. Listen…"

From the tiny crevice of her hiding place, Erika demonstrated the proper vocal technique. With a little more prompting, Christian repeated what she'd shown as best he could. This process continued well into the night. Christian needed to be brought down from fits of frustration many a time, but he always was compelled to obey the Angel of Music. What mere mortal would dare defy an Angel, especially one they believed so desperately was their own mother?

Erika didn't believe in Angels. Manipulation though grief, and a little touch of magic, had given her a pupil. She found herself almost thanking Christian's deceased mother as she conducted her first formal lesson. If she weren't lying dead in a grave somewhere, Christian would never have been as easy to deceive. Only a man broken by loss could be swayed into accepting such nonsense, as far as Erika was concerned. If such miracles were even slightly possible, Erika would've been dealt a much more merciful hand – a much more beautiful face.


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Stronger," Erika paced the maintenance balcony encircling the theatre's domed ceiling, "and with passion. Find meaning behind the notes, and express it."

Below, Christian caroled the aria his Angel had taught. Even from this great distance, his voice carried true up to the ceiling. He'd grown from a mewling kitten to a roaring tiger since receiving lessons – but Erika was determined to push him further.

"Fill your lungs," she commanded as her pupil sang, "use every ounce of breath to crescendo." Conviction clenched her hands as Christian belted out the melody's climactic finale. After attempting the aria all night, he'd finally realized its power. It sent Erika into a swell of elation, hearing the voice she'd spent months chiseling and thawing from its hiding place. "Perfection! Perfection!"

Christian relaxed, obviously pleased with himself.

"The hour is late. You need your rest," Erika decided, "that's all for tonight. You've much improved, child."

"Has it been enough to please you, Angel?" Christian bowed to the empty theatre, his hair falling over his shoulder. Were it not for his disheveled clothes, he would have seemed a proper gentleman.

Erika grinned on the bare half of her face, her brown eyes softening – they so rarely did. "My dear," she echoed through the crystal chandelier, "you could never displease me."

She then fell silent, as if the Angel had dissipated into the ether. Christian wandered backstage to receive his jacket, and returned holding it in his hands. He paused, inspecting the fabric before plucking an object that had oddly appeared in his breast pocket: a full, red rose. He twirled it between his fingers whimsically before carrying it outside, with a smile so bright it almost glowed in the dimmed theatre.

Erika reclined against the wall, sighing to herself and relishing the hush on the empty opera house.

"A vast improvement, indeed."

After Erika's heartbeat resumed, she recognized the sudden voice as none other than:

"Monsieur Giry," Erika said in reception. She couldn't see the older man in the darkness, but the orientation of his voice was somewhere below her on the seating balconies.

"I was wrong about that Daaé boy," Giry's voice rebounded, "although I never should have doubted. He's the student of a maestro, after all. I saw such promise in you as a girl. It's sad you pass your talents on to a chorus boy, who will be gone soon enough."

Giry was correct. Erika had only arranged Christian's lessons until the end of production. _Hannibal_ was set to be performed in less than three weeks. After that, Christian – and all he'd been taught – would vanish from the Opera Populaire forever. Erika's chest tightened.

"No, m _onsieur_ ," she braced herself against the railing, watching the candlelight from the stage catch faintly and dance inside the chandelier, "no student of mine will stay a chorus boy. Before _Hannibal_ has run its course, Christian will have a name for himself. Nothing ruffles that Carlo's feathers more than being humiliated."

"Florence and Andrée have enough to deal with," Giry said sternly, "don't do anything foolish."

"This opera would be ash if those imbeciles were left alone with it," Erika scoffed, "that's why I decide for them. I _will_ be seeing to Christian's promotion…and you will as well. You and your son, both."

Giry's laugh fluttered like an invisible bird around the dome of the ceiling, perching on the hanging crystals to taunt Erika.

"Why do you laugh, m _onsieur_?"

"I've never seen so much passion from you outside your work," Giry chortled, "and a rose speaks volumes in the language of flowers."

Erika felt her breath become hot. "Is there something you're insinuating, Giry?"

"Not at all, _mademoiselle,_ " Giry said, his voice lifting in a subtle tease, "this is simply the first time I've seen you happy."

* * *

Dress rehearsal - the final week before opening night. The cast of _Hannibal_ swarmed about the building like a colony of ants, the epicenter of their activity being the crowded stage. The chaos was controlled only when organized into scenes...but even then:

"Can anyone tell me where the devil Florence is?" Andrée crossed the stage, the hem of her skirt hiked up as she scurried about in search of her partner. "We need to run through the finale!"

Peering through a crack in the backstage wall, Erika shook her head. She was no longer surprised by the incompetence of the managerial staff. They still had yet to pay her salary, despite the several reminders Giry had delivered to them. Andrée continued to pace to and fro as the cast began to file in from the dressing rooms. Carlo emerged from his private dressing room, decorated in the extravagant costume of Hannibal, the opera's title character. As per standard practice, he'd been assigned the largest role. Also as per usual, he strutted around the stage like an overly plump peacock; making sure everyone saw him in his red-and-gold attire.

Erika watched as Uberta Piangi entered from stage-left, costumed in the glittering gown of _Hannibal_ 's female lead. As head soprano, it was no wonder Uberta was courting the lead tenor. She strode to Carlo's side almost at once, giggling and making a scene of kissing his cheek.

The last of the cast to arrive were those in the chorus, divided up into groups organized by their roles. Christian and Marc came in with their group: the men and women depicting Hannibal's palace slaves. Both men wore the same bagging trousers and loose faux chains around their arms. Monsieur Giry stepped out from the wings, the thump of his cane arriving before he came into view.

"Where the Hell is Florence?!" Andrée cried from the wings.

"Andrée?" Florence appeared from somewhere in the seating. "Where are you?"

"I'm here," Andrée ran onstage, "where are you?"

"Here," Florence waved her hands in the air as she walked to the orchestra pit. "Good God, woman, I've been looking everywhere for you."

"Oh, nevermind!" Andrée snapped, stepping off the platform, "Maestro, prepare the finale."

"Places, everyone! Places!"

In a rush, all performers scrambled to either side of the stage as the orchestra started up. With attention diverted, Erika slipped partway from the wall and onto the catwalk. She withdrew a coil of scarlet from under her arm and slowly unraveled it, until a thin noose dangled from her hand. The air softly whistled as Erika twirled the lasso over her head and flung it upward. The loop caught the handle of a switch and constricted. Erika stood on her toes and glanced down at the stage, waiting to spring her trap.

Carlo's voice rang out, beginning its rendition of Hannibal's biggest musical number. The time was right. Erika could see him, see the gold of his costume glint as he stepped downstage, holding the severed head prop the finale required.

"Oi, what are you doing up 'ere?"

Erika turned with a start, seeing Josephine Buquet standing not fifteen yards down the catwalk. The frizzle-haired woman gaped at Erika as she turned to face her:

"So, it's you again..."

There was no more time to hesitate. Erika tugged her lasso free of the switch, activating it. With a horrific noise, the painted canvas of the backdrop fell to Earth. Erika wound up her lasso as Josephine once again chased after her. The resulting brief moment of panic from the cast allowed Erika to merge with the wall and slam the hidden door behind her without the sounds of her escape giving her away. For safe measure, once she was hidden, she remained perfectly still.

"Josephine!" Florence's irate voice called once the uproar had quieted, "Get down here this instant!"

"It wasn't me, _madame_ , I swear! The Mirage was 'ere, I saw 'er!"

"Again with this nonsense?"

"I swear!"

Erika got up and left as swiftly as she could, not staying to witness the episode happening on the outside. Her presence was now known, and that was all that was necessary. She trusted the Girys would carry out her specific requests. Even more so, she trusted Christian. Those two fools who ran her opera had no good excuse to turn him away, now. He'd been well taught.


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

The audience surely must have been surprised when a thin Swede took center stage, instead of the haughty Italian the posters outside advertised. How they would receive Christian in place of their star, no one could have said.

Erika hadn't been thinking of the knot in her intestines – the fear her student would be rejected by the public he so deserved. Instead, from the shadows of Box Five, she moved her hands in tandem with the music. She hoped to ignite the air between herself and Christian with resolve, to conduct his vocals like the limbs of a puppet on a string. Christian must have felt her sprit, for the performance he gave as Hannibal that evening exceeded anything Erika had yet seen from him. During curtain call, the audience rose from their seats one-by-one and applauded Christian as he stepped forward for his bow.

The gala had been a grand success, and so had Christian.

Erika bypassed the sounds of the congested ballroom, filled to the brim with high-caliber guests Andrée and Florence were attempting to impress with their first opera. She instead made her way to the mirror of the luxury dressing room – the one she scarcely ventured to, on account of it belonging to Carlo most months out of the year. That night was different, of course. That night, it belonged to Christian – all thanks to Erika.

Dust coughed from the curtain as it fell from the body-length window. Her timing couldn't have been better. Christian and several men from the chorus were standing around the room, laughing together as Marc Giry went about filling their glasses with red wine. Erika made a mental note to remind the managers not to offer their performers such a colorful beverage while still in-costume.

After his peers had been served, Marc poured the last of the bottle into his own glass. "A toast," he held his drink aloft, "to Christian Daaé, from chorus boy to Hannibal in just one week. May we all find inspiration in him, and wish him luck on his journey to fame."

"Yes, and may that Carlo guinea choke on his rage," one of the men retorted, causing the room to erupt in laughter.

"To Christian," Marc cheerfully raised his glass.

"To Christian," the company chanted.

After the men had drank the toast, several left to change clothing and retire home. Marc stayed behind to assist Christian in removing Hannibal's extravagant attire. Monsieur Giry had taught Erika to respect the privacy of others, but social mannerisms weren't exactly of great importance to her. She averted her gaze out of respect for her pupil, but did steal a sideways glance or two in the moments before Christian buttoned his undershirt.

"So, you won't tell me your secret?" Marc asked, gathering his things to leave.

Christian smirked. "What secret?"

"Don't be coy," Marc said, "where in the world did you learn to sing like that? If you don't mind me saying…you were…a bit of a disaster earlier this season."

Christian laughed, walking up to the mirror. He leaned in and adjusted the collar of his new suit – one that had been waiting for him in the dressing room that morning. Now Erika couldn't avert her eyes. She'd never been so physically close to Christian before; but now only a thin pane of glass separated them. He wasn't even aware. For the first time, she saw the blueness of his eyes and the subtle twitch of his facial muscles as he spoke:

"Marc, you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"I can believe a lot of things," Marc insisted, a peculiar look in his eyes behind the shimmer his smile gave them.

"I'll just say…" Christian grinned, picking up the single rose he just then realized was sitting on the table beside his mirror, "I have an Angel looking out for me."

Marc walked to Christian's side, took the wineglass from the table, and threw back the last drink of it. "You didn't need it," he handed the empty glass back to his friend. The two of them shared another laugh. "Enjoy the gala, you've earned it."

As Marc neared the door, a light knocking interrupted. The door wasn't visible to Erika from where she stood, so she took her opportunity while she had Christian to herself.

"You've earned so much more than a gala," she said softly, close to the glass. "Bravo, my child."

Christian turned to the mirror, leaning in close as well. "Thank you," he whispered.

"Speaking to your reflection, are you Chrissy?" an unfamiliar voice came from out of view – an unfamiliar, _feminine_ voice.

Christian's blue eyes widened. He spun on his heels and executed a bow at the waist. " _Madame_ , I beg your pardon, but I cannot accept private visitors at this hour. Especially…not an unchaperoned young lady, it wouldn't be proper of me."

"There's no need for formalities, Chrissy," a woman stepped into view, gowned for the social event outside. Her waist was pinched thin with a corset and her orange hair was fashioned with pearls. In her hand, she fluttered a fan made from white feathers.

"Forgive me," Christian stammered, "but have we met?"

The woman chuckled, stepping closer, snapping her fan closed. "I remember the summers your mother would come play for us. We would spend all day in the gardens, and spend all night reading folktales."

Christian gasped, coming to a realization. "Rachel?"

The woman smiled, running and throwing her arms around Christian. "Oh, it's been so long!"

"Rachel!" Christian returned her embrace, "I didn't recognize you at all."

"Nor did I, until they said who you were," Rachel stepped back, admiring her childhood friend. "You look so well! How is your mother? Is she here tonight?"

Christian paused. "Mother's dead, Rachel."

"Oh," Rachel's expression fell.

"I'm alright," Christian insisted, taking Rachel's shoulders, "tonight is a good night."

"Indeed!" Rachel beamed, reaching into the velvet sash draped around her hips. She produced, from the folds of fabric, a white lily. "Here, this is for you. I wanted to hide it, as a surprise."

"How thoughtful," Christian happily accepted the gift, holding it in the same hand as his Angel's rose.

"When you're ready," Rachel hugged his arm with a squeeze, "I've so many friends I want to introduce you to. Several of them have connections, Christian. They could really help your career, especially after that breathtaking performance!"

"You're too kind, Rachel," Christian radiated happiness. "I'm glad to see you haven't changed at all since we were young."

Rachel chuckled again as she ducked out the door. "I'll be waiting outside, come soon."

The rose and the lily, clutched together inside Christian's hand, something about the sight tensed Erika's jaw. "Insolent little girl!" she spat, tossing her voice fully into the dressing room. "How dare she come just to grovel at your feet."

Christian jumped at the venom in Erika's words. "Have I offended you, Angel?"

"Not you, my child, but your company. It insults me that one like her should come to leech off the glory I've given. It is you I've chosen to receive it, not she!"

Christian looked at the flowers in his hand and, reluctantly, tossed the lily in the waste bin. "Forgive me, Angel," he bowed his head, smelling the rose, "I meant no disrespect."

"I know it, child," Erika crooned, "but I think it best to keep you under my watch tonight."

"Angel?"

"All these impure creatures may taint you," Erika reached for the one feature all her mirrors had – a handle. "They aren't ready for you, nor what I have given you."

"You truly are my guardian," Christian knelt and closed his eyes, holding his hands around the rose as if in prayer. "Come to me, Angel of Music. I'm ready to receive your protection."

The mirror opened on silent hinges. "Dear, tender Christian…" Erika's boots clicked against the hardwood, stopping in front of the kneeling young man. With a gloved hand she gently tilted his chin, until the bright blue of his eyes was staring up at her in speechless awe. "Come with me."

Her pupil was mute as Erika took him by the hand and led him through the hidden passageway, letting the rose fall to the floor. She grinned to herself as she shut the mirror back into place. Christian was in her world now, where no one else could have him. He was hers…and hers alone.


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6:

Masonry devolved into chiseled limestone as they descended the twisting passages. Stairway after stairway, and door after door brought them deeper into the forgotten underbelly of the building. Moisture was soon trickling from all surfaces, collecting in pools covering the floor – making it slick. Groundwater had been seeping into the cellars since they had fallen out of repair, eating away the limestone. They passed what had been the first cellar. Its walls had crumpled to expose the flooded chamber and send a flow of water cascading down the stairway.

"Mind your step," Erika kept Christian's balance as he stumbled. A small stone, knocked loose by a boot, was sent plummeting into the dark water beyond Erika's lantern light.

Christian nodded, maintaining the quiet he'd kept since being led from the dressing room. It wasn't clear if his silence was spawned from awe, respect, or shock. Certainly, an apparition like Erika _would_ be shocking. She knew, from spending her days observing the outside world, what men and women were expected by society to wear.

What a sight she must have been, a woman dressed in a man's trousers and tailcoat. It was taboo, but it was all Monsieur Giry could do for her; to lend her articles of his clothing. It would be highly suspect of him to purchase a dress and corset with no woman in his life. If one of them was to be seen as a cross-dresser, it may as well be the one no one saw.

The stream on the stairs ended as abruptly as the steps did, when it met and emptied into a much larger body of water. Erika looked back at Christian, pleased to see his eyebrows rise. Before them stretched the vast expanse of a subterranean lake, formed from the complete collapse of the second cellar. Without wind, the surface of the inky water was supernaturally still – reflecting a distant yellow glow without as much as a ripple.

Tethered to a hook in the wall, an ornate Italian gondola appeared in the light – floating motionless. Erika hung the lantern from the boat's helm. With a polite wave of her hand, she instructed Christian to board.

* * *

Sighs of mist swirled around the gondola as it glided across the lake. It was as if the lake had breath of its own, exhaling its clammy breath on its visitors. Gradually, the yellow glow came into sharper focus. As distance closed, dozens of burning candelabras cast their light upon the water. The third cellar – or at least the three walls and entrance stairway that remained of it – awaited their arrival at the lake's edge.

Erika leapt from the vessel as it neared the opposite shore – vaulting over the short distance with the long pole she used to urge the gondola along.

"What is this place?" Christian finally spoke.

"My inner sanctum," Erika answered, guiding the boat to a make-shift dock and tethering it. "This is where the Angel finds respite…in secret…in shadow."

Erika questioned how much longer Christian would fall for her ruse. It was one thing to manifest as a heavenly voice, but a mortal body made of flesh and bone was enough to shatter her illusion. At least it would be, if Christian came around from the trance-like haze he seemed to be in. Perhaps he was still attempting to process the surreal turn of events. Perhaps the wine was starting to go to his head – if this were the case, it would allow Erika a bit more leeway to play pretend.

Erika offered Christian her hand, but this time he hesitated to take it. Was it his pride as a man that was making him reluctant to accept the aid of a woman? Or, was it the fact that said woman was dressed as a man? Regardless, he still recognized her as his Angel – his friend and his guardian. He took her hand and stepped onto the dock.

"This is where you live? Underneath it all?" Christian amazed, stepping onto the stone floor. His voice and his footsteps both echoed. "How long?"

"That's not important," Erika began up the staircase. "What's important is that you're safe here, with me. I'll return shortly." She ascended the rest of the stairs, leaving Christian to her room.

It was a climb, but Erika made sure to bolt and latch the door at the top of the stairs – the Girys' entrance. With the boat at her dock, and the only other door bolted shut, there was no chance of anyone finding Christian if she didn't want them to.

* * *

Erika shifted her weight onto her toes to avoid her heels clicking as she stepped from the last stair. Christian was at her organ, his back to her. The sound of papers rustling told her what he was doing. She crept closer. He was humming as he thumbed through her notes, humming _her_ notes. Even without the lyrics to them, he made her melody come alive with such little effort.

Erika placed a hand on Christian's shoulder, making him yelp in surprise.

"Oh, my! Angel, please forgive me!" he tapped the sheets into order and set them down on the organ, "I…I was not meaning to invade-."

"My dear, that was beautiful," Erika cupped his cheek and turned his face towards her own. The candlelight dazzled in his eyes, and she took a breathless second to appreciate the sight. "Your voice suits my music."

Christian's brow unfurrowed. "This is yours?"

Erika nodded with a prideful grin. It wasn't the first time she'd been asked that very question. She retrieved her sheet music and inspected it. "Ah, a score from _Dona Juanita_. My greatest work-in-progress."

She arranged the music and sat in front of the keys. At once, she began playing the piece – her gloved hands gracefully flying from note to note. In her ringing soprano, she sang the lyrics of the opera's titular character; but partway though, she stopped. Her hands fell from the keys and she looked over her shoulder at Christian with frustration.

"I'm waiting," she said flatly.

"For what?"

"This is a duet, my dear," Erika motioned him nearer; "you've read my music. Dona Juanita cannot sing it alone, she must have her Amintas."

And so they sang together, for the first time. This wasn't like a voice lesson. She and Christian had never had their voices entwined in a duet before. The music filled the cavernous room and bounded across the listless lake – the whole air seeming to sing. Nothing else mattered in that moment to Erika. It was just the two of them together: teacher and student, Juanita and Amintas.

* * *

Christian grew tired, the effects of wine and live performance eventually sapping his energy for the day. Erika offered him her bed. Or rather, the closest item to a bed the Girys could smuggle down for her: a padded funeral coffin. Christian had been reluctant, but the fall from the buzz of his wine had made his eyes too heavy to resist.

Erika continued to play her music softly as Christian drifted off. She wasn't one who needed much sleep. She much preferred to stay awake at odd hours composing the opera she was so desperate to perfect. That night, however, she didn't compose. Instead, she chose the softest ballads from _Dona Juanita_ and tapped them from the ivory until she was certain her young guest was asleep.

Filled with bliss for the first time in most of her life, Erika's thoughts were harmonious enough to allow something that rarely came without some amount of effort on her part. Within an hour, she had fallen asleep at the keys of her instrument.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7:

With a scream, Erika went from sound asleep to wildly alert. Her hand came instinctually up to cover the right half of her face – blocking it from the awful sensation of cold air. She stood and turned so quickly, her bench flew back and hit the shins of the young man standing behind her.

Christian's eyes held a look of horror, and his hands held Erika's mask.

An inhuman growl vibrated at the back of Erika's throat as she realized what he'd done. She bared her teeth in a snarl and savagely lunged at Christian. "You goddamned serpent!"

Christian took off, attempting to put the organ between himself and his enraged hostess. He underestimated how fast she was, however. She remained right at his heels. He tried ducking past her to flee up the stairs. Not wise. Erika had him like a vice by the collar in an instant.

"You accursed rat!" she screamed at the very limits of her voice. "You had the _gall_!"

Christian seemed to remember he still had her mask. Looking away, he held it out to her and it trembled slightly in his hand.

"Oh, no," Erika growled, pulling the mask from his hand and letting it fall to the ground. "You wanted to see…you damn well see!"

Her hand came away from her face. Christian shut his eyes tightly and refused to look.

Erika roughly seized his chin, eliciting a small grunt from the tenor. She turned his head forcibly to face her, but his eyes remained stubbornly shut.

"Look. At. Me." Erika said through clenched teeth.

Finally, Christian complied. Erika watched him blanch with a sort of sadistic satisfaction. This was his punishment, to behold her for what she really was: no Angel, but a demon. One eye sunken much too far, half her lips curled unnaturally away from her teeth, her skin paper thin to conform to the muscle underneath. The worst feature of all was rather the lack of one. A dark cavity was in the place where a nose should have grown.

"Is this not what you wanted?" Erika snarled. "Is this what you were expecting your Angel to look like? I'm sorry to disappoint!"

Christian flinched as Erika gripped his chin harder.

"I'm no Angel, Christian." The burning fury in Erika's glare suddenly turned inward, causing her eyes to sting. "I'm the mistake Heaven forgot about."

Her grip loosened, and she felt a pang of guilt in her chest when she saw the red marks she'd left on Christian's face. He was still pale with fear, and she saw him gulp. She ran her fingers gently through Christian's long hair. Touching her unblemished cheek to his, she whispered: "This thorn has found her rose, and she'll draw blood from those who wish to pluck his beauty."

Erika retrieved her mask from the ground, brushing the grit from its surface. Within seconds, the Mirage was once again looking into Christian's face. Angelic white plaster once again disguised the horror beneath. She adjusted Christian's collar, which had been pulled loose.

"Come now, my dear," Erika ordered, turning promptly towards the dock, "surely you're being missed upstairs."

* * *

Erika heard the thumping of Monsieur Giry's cane before she saw him on the stairs. Ah, right on cue. After she unlocked the door, she knew it was only a matter of time before he came to visit. She turned to see the greying man giving her a coldly displeased look.

"Something you wish to discuss?" Erika asked, returning to her stationery. She dipped her quill and began to scratch it over the parchment.

"I warned you not to do anything foolish," Giry said gravely. "Don't think I didn't suspect where the Daaé boy was when he didn't attend the gala. Kidnapping the poor boy on his first night of success? I demand to know what you were thinking!"

"My mind is an enigma, you couldn't possibly understand it."

"Don't try me, Erika." Giry thumped his cane against the stone floor.

Erika frowned. Giry knew it displeased her to be called by name.

"The authorities were almost alerted to a missing person case," Giry went on. "You're very fortunate Daaé has decided not to get them involved, and that he has not breathed a word of where he's been."

Ignoring him, Erika approached Giry with a handful of notes. "Deliver these to the appropriate addresses as soon as possible, if you would be so kind."

"What are they?"

"Feedback on last night's performance," Erika said," as well as a few declarations of what will be expected of everyone in regards to Christian."

"You're mad if you would reveal yourself as his tutor," Giry shook his head.

"Would I be?" Erika casually tugged on her gloves. "I was the one who molded him into their new star. They wouldn't dare disobey my orders, if those two buffoons know what's good for their business…and their health."

Giry's stoic expression wavered. "What's brewing inside that mind of yours? I don't like the sound of this."

Erika focused her eyes on her foster father. "He recoils in fear at the sight of me. Thus, I can no longer be his Angel."

Giry nodded, a grim understanding in his expression.

"However," Erika continued, "the Mirage is no Angel. The Angel could only give a voice, the Mirage can give anything. That's because, _monsieur_ , the Mirage doesn't abide by the laws of Heaven."

Monsieur Giry took the notes, giving her a dubious glare.

"No harm will come," Erika assured the Box Keeper as he turned to leave. "As long as my demands are met, no harm will befall a soul."

Erika watched Giry leave briskly up the stairs. Although it wasn't due to her deformity, there were times like these that Erika could sense she frightened him. She found it ludicrous, of course. Giry should have known by then that there was nothing to fear from her – aside from the occasional fallen scene or interrupted audition.

Threats were made only to ensure the compliance of those she dangled from her strings. Fear was a very potent obedience serum. From her mother threatening to knock her unconscious if she strayed near a window, to the Carnival Master's second knock on her door; Erika had learned that fear was a very potent obedience serum indeed.


	9. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** **This is the latest a chapter to this story has ever been (what has it been, like two weeks? Jesus Christ almighty), and I apologize for that. Life has gotten in the way, and I hope none of you are too upset with me. Please enjoy!**

Chapter 8

"Do you think this is humorous?" Florence asked, leaning over her desk. "Is this your idea of a practical joke, Giry?"

Monsieur Giry was seated in the managerial office, his hands folded over the head of his cane. Erika had made for the office's hanging mirror when she heard the managers summon him. She now observed the interrogation the old Box Keeper was stoically receiving.

"Did you or did you not send these letters?" Andrée pressed, tapping the two torn envelopes sitting on the desk.

"I know nothing of any letters," Giry answered, "the only message I've touched is the one I left for you this morning."

Both women looked to the envelope sitting atop a stack of paperwork. Its red wax seal was unbroken, its contents unread. " _To Management_ " was scrawled in black cursive above the seal.

"You wrote it as well?" Andrée asked.

"I wrote nothing, _madame_. That was in Box Five, waiting there as I made my rounds."

Florence took the envelope addressed to her and unfolded the letter within. She threw Giry an unhappy grimace. "The handwriting is the same," she said, comparing the scribbling on the page to the unopened envelope.

"What, may I ask, did the letters say?" Giry inquired, "What has you so upset that their sender must be located?"

Florence cleared her throat, smoothed down her hair, and read from the message she'd received:

" _Dear Florence,_

 _I was very much pleased with last night's gala. It's clear you and your associate are at least competent at directing a cast. However, do instruct your choreographer to better train her dancers. Several members of the ballet were late on their cues, resulting in several numbers looking like a charging herd of goats._

 _Your Friend,_

 _Mirage_ "

Andrée re-opened her letter:

" _Dear Andrée,_

 _As you were the producer of last night's performance, I must congratulate you on your success of going over budget. Did the turbans of the elephant handlers need to be so ornate? Next time, focus your resources on what truly matters. I must say, you were wise to choose Christian Daaé to replace Carlo. He brought an air of regality to the role that no one else could have._

 _Your Humble Servant,_

 _Mirage_

 _(P.S) I have yet to receive my salary, madame, and I'm growing rather impatient with you."_

"If you're unhappy with how we run our opera, _monsieur_ , I suggest you file an official complaint," Andrée said.

"Indeed, there's no need to voice your concerns through sarcasm," Florence agreed, "it's unlikely anyone will take you seriously."

Giry leaned forward on his cane and chuckled deep inside his throat. "There's no need to take offense. The Mirage is simply giving her feedback."

"Monsieur Giry, would you like to lose your job?" Florence sighed. "Because that's exactly what will happen if you try and blame this on a fairy tale character."

"The Mirage is no fairy tale, _mesdames_ ," Giry shrugged, "she's been present at the Opera Populaire for years. Did your predecessors not mention the letters _they_ received after each production?"

Once again, the women shared an uneasy glance – this time at one another. Andrée reached for the sealed envelope, but Florence snatched it and held it out to Giry.

"You read it," she said, "and let us see what this 'Mirage' character wants of us."

Giry broke the crimson seal and drew out the parchment inside. In a voice that was clear and precise – as if he knew Erika was listening – he read:

" _My Dearest Friends,_

 _I see you intend 'La Muta' to be your second undertaking. As you are running your business from the doorstep of my home, understand that I'm entitled to make changes to the production as I see fit. Most assuredly, you felt the motion of my hand in the workings of Hannibal. Your acceptance that it was my hand is another matter entirely._

 _I ask for very little in regards to 'La Muta'. I only request a change of cast for two very particular roles. The foreign novelty of your lead tenor has begun to wear thin. The ensemble is in need of fresh lifeblood after so many years, and Carlo is little more than a clot. However, the improvement in the young Daaé was remarkable, was it not? You're quite welcome for that. Had he not been my pupil, your gala would have been lamentable indeed. It would be a shame if he was given any role less than the Count after such a marvelous debut._

 _As for Carlo, should he choose return, I believe the limelight has not been good for his health. It would do him good to rest his voice for a bit. As the producers of 'La Muta', perhaps you could find him a role that would spare him the strain on his vocals._

 _I must make you aware that Box Five is to be off-limits to audience members on opening night. These instructions are not optional, and I will expect each one to be followed to the letter. Please be advised, mesdames, that one with the power to give also has the power to take. I wish you the best in your endeavors._

 _~ Mirage_ "

The color had faded from Florence's cheeks, their blushes of rouge powder doing nothing to hide it. Andrée was giving her partner a smug grin, standing taller with vindication. Monsieur Giry folded the letter and placed it on the desktop.

"Am I excused?" he asked.

Florence waved her hand, dismissing Giry from the room. "If you 'find' any more of those notes, Giry, burn them," she called after him, "I don't want to see another in my office again."

"Florence," Andrée piped up after a moment's hesitation, "what are we going to do?"

"We're not going to be intimidated by a joker," Florence scowled, pouring a glass from the water pitcher, "that's what."

"Should I send for Carlo, then?"

"No, let's just forget our biggest staple and let our theatre go bankrupt," Florence retorted, rolling her eyes as she brought the glass to her lips. "Yes, send for him you idiot. Just what is that Mirage going to do about it?"

"Nothing, whoever they are," Andrée laughed lightly, "if they wish to remain an employee. My money is on Josephine, she's always up there in the rafters. She could be pulling these pranks, the flash powder, the falling scenes. After all, she's the one who started all this talk."

"Talk," Florence nodded, sitting her glass down, "that's all this is. It's talk."

Erika impatiently shook her head. " _You trust that notion_ ," she thought, " _see where it gets you_."


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 9:

"The role suits him," Carlo's boisterous voice carried over the clamor of the theatre lobby, "he has the hair of a lady, does he not?"

Laughter floated from the group seated around the opera star, and then the conversation merged back into the surrounding noise. Erika stood vigil at her hidden window, lingering there to spy on the cast members that remained. It was halfway through the first day of rehearsal, and a recess had been called for the midday meal.

Erika had surveyed the chaos that was standard of any first rehearsal: scattered sheet music, singers stumbling over unfamiliar lyrics, and the like. The announcement of the cast list, in particular, had placed her in a foul disposition. Her instructions had been blatantly ignored. Carlo had been given the role of Count. The role of Serafina – the mute maid the Count was to fall in love with – was a deliberate spit in the face. The role, completely intended for a woman, had been given to Christian.

Erika was livid. With Christian absent from the lobby, his peers were happy to gossip about his humiliating fall from grace. A night as Hannibal, now overshadowed by an affront to his masculinity. The vast improvement of his voice, now ignored by a silent role. Every snide remark and quiet jeer cut as if they were directed at her.

"When members of your cast are vanishing, it doesn't bode well for the production."

Three people approached up the hall, entering from a doorway several yards from the two-way mirror. The face Erika first recognized was Florence. The manager was walking alongside a well-dressed man. Judging by his brisk walk and the way he donned his top hat, said man was preparing to leave the building.

"Monsieur Daaé was gone for only a night," Florence's words were coming forth rapidly. It was clear she was becoming desperate in her exchange with this gentleman. "He returned unharmed."

"Did you ever learn where he was?" the man asked as they continued on. "Was anyone, other than the press, ever contacted?"

Florence was silent.

"Then, _madame_ , I cannot risk my investment. Your publicity stunts could stain my reputation."

"Viscount, I implore you," Florence pleaded, "your involvement in this production is a resource Andrée and I value. One small incident will not affect your business with us, surely?"

As Florence and her guest passed in front of the mirror, Erika saw a second familiar face following behind them. The red-headed young woman buttoned a riding hood around her shoulders as she followed the man and Florence into the lobby. She was no longer dressed for the formality of a gala, but her bright orange locks were unmistakable despite their lack of pearl accents. What had her name been, again? Ah, yes: Rachel. Erika scowled as she recalled the sound of the name on Christian's breath.

"It will not," the Viscount said, "but I warn you, Florence, if anything more happens to upset production I'll sever ties with you and your partner."

"Of course," Florence agreed, " _merci_."

On the other side of the room, Christian and Marc were returning from lunch. Marc had not been handed down instructions to treat Christian to a meal that day, and Erika had been surprised to see them depart. It was evident that the two youths had become close friends through the season. Erika hoped Marc's bond with her pupil would further her influence over him. The dancer would do anything to assist a friend.

Rachel saw the men arrive and hurried over. The distance was too far to pick up any words exchanged between them, but Erika could see the friendly embrace Christian and the woman shared upon meeting. After a few more muted sentences, the pair approached Florence and the Viscount. Erika honed in on the conversation, straining to listen.

"Father, you remember Christian Daaé?" Rachel asked the Viscount.

"Oh, yes," the Viscount said with a nod, "quite the man of the hour."

"He would visit us often when we were younger, Father," Rachel said. "His mother would play the violin, don't you recall?"

"Vaguely, I do," Rachel's father said, his voice stale as old bread.

Christian was grinning, but his shoulders were visibly tense in the presence of the Viscount. "Good day, Monsieur de Chagny," he greeted, extending a hand.

Rachel's father accepted Christian's handshake, but just barely. "Good day. I trust you're well after that…" he glanced at Florence, "incident at the gala?"

"Yes," Christian gave an uncomfortable laugh, "I'm well."

"The papers must be pleased to hear you've returned," the Viscount said, "it's sure to get most of Paris through those doors. Quite a story for the masses."

"Yes…" Christian said, embarrassment starting to flush his face, "I suppose so, Viscount."

"Father, may I speak to Christian alone?" Rachel asked, taking Christian's hand away from her parent's grip. She didn't wait for a response, she simply nudged Christian into the hallway she and her father had come from. Now Erika could hear their words above all else.

"Don't ask me, Rachel," Christian said, pulling his hand away from her.

"Father is convinced this whole thing was staged for the press," Rachel sighed, glancing over her shoulder, "but I don't. I know it's been a long time since we were playmates, but the Christian I know wouldn't lie to hundreds of people for money. What happened during the gala?"

"I was with a friend," Christian insisted, taking hold of Rachel's shoulders, "it's no one's business but my own."

Rachel's hand cupped Christian's cheek and suddenly she gasped. "Oh my God…Christian…what did this 'friend' do to you?" Her thumb went over the corner of his lips. "You're bruised."

Christian took her hand away from his face. "There was a little too much to drink, that's all," he muttered, quickly glancing towards Rachel's father. "Don't worry yourself."

Erika took her eyes off the conversation and caught sight of Carlo and his comrades watching the two from a ways off. The Italian tenor seemed to find it rather humorous that his impromptu replacement was speaking with a Viscountess. Erika found it to be quite the opposite. The revelation of this woman's title didn't quell the disdain that was rising in her.

Rachel stared at Christian with aggravation before heaving a sigh. "I won't force an answer from you," she said. "If Father will allow it, Christian, would you like to join us for lunch?"

"Not today, I'm afraid," Christian smiled, "there's much still I'm needed for. " He cast a second glance in the Viscount's direction, but with more confidence. "I don't think your father fancies me any."

"He would if he got to know you," Rachel chuckled. "He has an investment with the Opera Populaire, and if he and the opera's brightest star were to share a meal-"

"I'm not the brightest star," Christian said, "that would be Carlo."

"Not if I can help it," Rachel grinned up at Christian, her face sunny. "Perhaps tomorrow you could join us?"

"Perhaps," Christian took Rachel's hand and laid a kiss atop her fingers. "Until then, _min dam_."

"Until then."

As Rachel departed, Erika shifted her weight onto a support beam in the wall. It was not a deliberate move, simply an attempt to become comfortable. The aged wood emitted a low, creaking moan not out of place in the large building. No one else in the lobby reacted to the commonplace sound, but Christian's back straightened. Erika covered the window and left.


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 10:

" _Beneath this seat you will find a jar. Do not, under any circumstances, open it. Give it to your son. He knows what to do._

 _~ Mirage_ "

Early that morning, Erika had ventured up to the ballet room in search of a response. She had found a note hidden behind the paneling:

" _I've given the jar to Marc, and he refuses to divulge what you've asked of him. Whatever it is you have planned, you_ _will not_ _bring harm to my son. Nor will you involve him in any illicit activity._

 _~ G_ "

Erika had written a final note and left it inside Box Five, knowing Giry would find it during his final round before the performance:

" _You have no reason to fret._

 _~ Mirage_ "

* * *

The letter hadn't been enough to deter Carlo, that much was plain. Opening night of ' _La Muta'_ was underway, yet Erika had given the opera's star one last chance to fall willingly. An envelope with her seal had been sent to his address containing the message:

" _Tomorrow night, you will leave the production and allow Christian Daaé to replace you. Either retire with grace, or watch your career burn to the ground. These are your options. Choose wisely._

 _~ Mirage_ "

Now, just an hour before the curtain was to rise, Erika stopped in passing to peer through the mirror of Carlo's dressing room. Two members of the costuming department attend to him. One threaded a sewing needle through final adjustments in the wardrobe. The other's hands were colorfully stained with facial paints. The attendant opened a gilded jar situated on the table and dipped his brush into the red cosmetic inside. Lip rouge.

Erika continued on through her passageways after she watched the color being heavily applied to the Italian's lips.

With show time nearing, Erika made for her usual seat in Box Five. She parted the privacy curtain, but immediately threw it shut and hid around the corner. Not one, but two people were seated inside. Box Five was to be kept off-limits to the audience: yet another of her demands not met by the imprudent new management. Her patience was officially depleted. What was more, Erika recognized a voice from behind the curtain as it spoke:

"Father, have you heard rumors that the opera house is being haunted?" the voice of Rachel de Chagny asked.

"Not at all," the voice of the Viscount answered. "Have you, darling?"

"Well, Christian has been rather on-edge," Rachel said. "As it would seem, every time something goes amiss the stagehands are quick to blame a ghost. He's told me it has the cast looking over their shoulders."

"Performers are superstitious, Rachel," the Viscount said nonchalantly, "they're easy to spook. Someone's having a laugh at their expense."

"I've tried telling him that," Rachel said, "but…he seems convinced there's something here."

"Honestly, darling, that doesn't surprise me in the least."

With no other choice, Erika ducked back into the walls. Through the months of rehearsal, Rachel's near constant presence at the opera house had grated on Erika's nerves. At least once a week, without fail, the Viscountess would appear with a chaperone to visit Christian. The sight of them together would crawl under Erika's skin like a parasite. Merely hearing the voice of this tactless intruder brought about the same reaction.

Erika was high above the audience on the maintenance balcony when the orchestra began the overture. The plot of ' _La Muta'_ was simple, a lighthearted comedy about a Count attempting to hide his affair with a maid by disguising her as his pageboy. Christian, bless him, was taking his role as seriously as any other – expressing the character through body language to make up for a lack of voice. Perhaps the absurd aesthetic of a man playing a woman added to the comedy, if the audience's laughter was any indication.

The first scene played out far below where Erika watched. She drummed her fingers on the railing, bearing the weight of her pupil's humiliation while waiting for the right moment to end it. Before the scene's end, Erika started detecting Carlo's subtle turns of the head between each line. He was clearing his throat much too often.

After a deep inhale, Erika tossed her voice loudly into the theatre: "My instructions were _not_ optional!"

The orchestra fell silent, as did the performers. A collective gasp went up from the audience, followed by a murmur of confusion. A quick scan of the theater boxes allowed Erika to locate where the managers and a few of their guests of honor sat. Andrée appeared to be offering an explanation to the guests, while Florence hid behind her fan. In the box opposite them, the Viscount and his daughter whispered to one another.

"One with the power to give, _mesdames_ , also has the power to take."

An aftershock of stillness was in the air after the echo of the Mirage faded away. With a hand wave from Florence, the conductor picked up the instrumental from just before the interruption. Swiftly, all the performers were as they were. Although the audience was now deathly quiet, the scene progressed as intended. At least, it almost did.

The moment he resumed, Carlo's vocal quality sank like a stone in water. His voice cracked and croaked with each note, until they could hardly classify as notes at all. By the end of the measure, his voice was reduced to a shrill, breathy screech. Even from the balcony, the expression that came over the lead "tenor" was hilarious.

The audience struggled to stifle its snickering, but not Erika. She cast a snide laugh over the audience like a lure, daring Carlo to take the bait. Carlo acknowledged the challenge for what it was. He desperately tried to recover his voice, but sounded ever more like an ill feline the harder he sang.

The audience could no longer contain its laughter. Now the other performers were staring in shock and the confused orchestra clumsily halted its playing. Now it was Carlo alone, making an ass of himself before the whole of France.

"It appears they've cast the wrong mute!" Erika declared over the crowd, holding her aching sides. She hadn't had a laugh this genuine in quite some time. This was by far the best comedy the Opera Populaire had ever produced.

Finally, Carlo broke down. He held his throat and began raging at his cast mates – they didn't seem too intimidated, on account of his destroyed voice. Seeing the other performers try and hide their grins, Carlo stood over Christian and made him the target of his ire.

"You had to do with this!" Carlo used what little voice he had left to scream at the smaller tenor. The curtain came rushing down as Carlo went thundering offstage.

Andrée stood and diverted the crowd's attention. " _Mesdames et messieurs_ ," she said, "please stay in your seats. Forgive the inconvenience."

Wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, Erika noticed Florence was no longer seated beside her partner. Looking into Box Five, she saw the other manager leading the de Chagny family elsewhere.

"The performance of ' _La Muta_ ' shall begin again in a short while," Andrée continued, "when Christian Daaé will be performing the role of the Count. Thank you."

The audience gave an approving round of applause and Erika joined in – if only to praise herself on a plan well executed. A vial of an apothecary's oil mixed into lip rouge, slowly coating the throat of her target as he salivated. Oh, she would have to remember that trick in the future.

As Erika crept behind the walls, descending to the nearest exit to Box Five, she couldn't help but walk a little taller. After the show, she would speak to Christian again. She'd shown what she could – and would – do to make him happy. Perhaps that would be enough to dissuade his fear of her.

"This is where you go off to, 'uh?"

Erika froze, her skin prickling at the sudden voice behind her. Her body braced for the flight of fight response. She heard footsteps coming closer.

"Surprise, Mirage. I found one o' yer 'iding places."

Josephine.


	12. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:** **Just so no one thinks this fic is dying, I've adjusted the 'release date' of each chapter from once every few days, to at least once a week. This will give me more time to plan and edit. Plus, it won't stress me out as much as trying to finish a chapter by force. I think it's better for everyone that way. It will result in better chapters for you to read. I hope this chapter was worth the new, longer wait. Please, enjoy!**

Chapter 11:

Panic was not a common state of mind for Erika to find herself in. That didn't mean it was hard to recognize when it seized control. Erika slammed the false panel back against the wall, concealing the tunnel she had come from. She saw the haphazardly aligned edges of the secret entrance, but didn't pause to correct them. Josephine was too close behind.

She had evaded Josephine twice before, but a very crucial element was missing from this third time: the ability to disappear. The narrow passages couldn't offer many opportunities to slip away, making pursuit easy. This, the store room in the backstage halls, was the first place Erika could think to go. She couldn't risk leading a trespasser to her home, although the temptation to lose Josephine in the darker tunnels was strong.

Low-burning gas lamps were mounted to the walls of the storage room. No open flames were permitted inside, on account of the miscellaneous props and set pieces kept there. No stagehands were present –without a doubt focused on re-setting the stage – and the spaces between the sets were silent. Erika merged with the silhouettes just as the false panel was forced open again.

The dim lamplight must have been like the sun for Josephine upon stepping from the exceptionally dark passage. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she performed a quick survey of the room.

"I know yer 'ere," she goaded in a sing-song manner.

Erika was careful to be light on her feet as she slipped behind the backdrop of a forest. Her pulse throbbed inside her ears. She almost feared the sound would give away her position. Josephine's heavy footfalls began maneuvering around the room. Erika crouched between the painted trees and kept her breathing shallow.

"I've almost lost my job because o' you," Josephine continued as she prowled about. "Everybody saying it's me doing all this shit. I dare you to prove 'em wrong, Mirage."

Slowly, Erika felt her way down the tight alleyway of backdrops. She was cornered like an animal. If she stayed in one place, she was likely to be found. Yet at the same time, movement could give her away. Erika backed into something solid and suppressed a gasp as she spun around. The elephant prop from _Hannibal_ stood vigilant in the corner, its wood-and-plaster tusks curving out to either side of its trunk. Discreet loops of cord dangled around the front legs, meant for pulling the large prop on and off the stage. Erika quickly untied one.

Concealed behind the faux beast, Erika fashioned the cord into a lasso. She no longer felt hunted with the weapon in her hands. Now she was a part of this game, and was waiting for the checkmate.

Erika tracked the distinct footsteps as they weaved through the mausoleum of performances past. She waited still and silent as the shadows, gripping the lasso's coil. The steps were closing in. Close, but not cautious. The mouse had no idea the cat was ready to pounce – confident in the delusion that _she_ was still the hunter and not the quarry. As Josephine wandered into the light of the nearest lamp, Erika launched her assault. Size and strength belonged to the scene shifter in this conflict, but Erika had the advantage of surprise.

The initial jerk on the yard of cord threw Josephine off balance – growling and tugging at the mysterious object around her throat. While her opponent was stunned, Erika wound the lasso around a tusk of _Hannibal_ 's elephant. Although the moment was brief, she had opened herself to a counter attack. A heavy force connected with her cheekbone. The constellations flashed before her eyes. A yelp left her, but her mind was only half occupied with the pain. The rest was concerned with catching the mask as it began to fall, displaced by Josephine's knuckles.

A second swing caught Erika in the ribs, hurling her back. The length of cord in her grip became taut, and suddenly both women were gasping for breath. Erika held the mask to her face, having saved it from falling completely away – although, the eye hole was no longer aligned. Near blind on one side, Erika gave a second forceful tug on the cord. Josephine quickly turned her fight on the snare as it closed tighter around her neck.

Erika readjusted the mask. A relaxed pace returned to her breathing. The mouse was in her trap.

"Rest assured, Buquet, they _will_ be proven wrong," Erika spoke.

Josephine tried to wrench herself free. "What do you want?" she asked through sputtering coughs.

"From you," Erika said, "silence." She took the lasso in both hands and applied soft tension to it, making her victim gag.

"Who…what…are you?"

"Your last sight."

The lasso strained nearly beyond its limit. Josephine frantically clawed at her throat as it was crushed against the tusk of the elephant. Erika watched her victim kick and thrash as consciousness waned. The mouth hung agape in a soundless scream, saliva beginning to drip from the corners. Dark red stains crept into the whites of the eyes. She had never watched a death occur, let alone at her own hands. It was far more ghastly than any book made it out to be.

* * *

Erika didn't notice the pain in her skull until the high of adrenaline ran its course. In her rightful seat, she enjoyed the restarted performance of _La Muta_. Although the understudy for Serafina had clearly not rehearsed as often as she should have, Erika considered it a vast improvement to the casting.

Across the darkened theatre, the de Chagny family had been given the seats of Andrée and Florence – who were now required to stand beside their guests. Every so often, Erika caught a glimpse of the managers leaving their box. It wouldn't be too long before they returned; but when they did, they were stone-faced.

The second act came to an end and the curtain fell. As the intermission began, Florence suddenly came on-stage.

" _Mesdames et messieurs_ ," she announced, "we offer our sincerest apologies…but the performance has been cancelled for tonight."

A small uproar of displeasure erupted from the audience. A twinge of anxiety worsened Erika's headache. She'd left Josephine in the store room, held up like a marionette by the neck. As the performance went on, Erika had found herself deliberating whether or not the body should have been hidden, or disposed of altogether. Regardless, it was unlikely to be found before the show's end. At least, that's what Erika had told herself.

"It's merely due to backstage difficulties," Florence continued, offering the audience an explanation. "Please do come again tomorrow night, we promise the issues will have been dealt with by then."

They had found Josephine, Erika knew it in the way Florence carried herself. The cancellation of the show was due to more than technical issues. Erika knew if she were suspected, Box Five was the first place someone would search. Slipping past the privacy curtain, Erika glanced at the managers' box and saw an orange-haired woman doing the same. The Viscount didn't seem to realize his daughter's absence, too interested in speaking with the other guests of honor.


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12:

The wind was biting, and growing ever colder. The faces of the rooftop statues were lined in shadow, the blue light of the moon making them look eerily alive. Erika pulled the tailcoat tighter around herself as another cold gale whipped across the roof. She longed for the shelter of the cellars, yet her passages had been compromised. Now, suddenly, the underground didn't seem as secure as it had mere hours prior. Uncomfortably exposed to the elements, she would have to wait out the mayhem happening downstairs.

The pounding in her skull had lessened, but the thin flesh under the mask had swelled. Each pulse she felt below her eye brought a reminder of where Josephine's fist had struck. The same could be said for her ribcage. Erika's side ached in tandem with her breathing – and it rendered her nearly motionless after forcing herself to the rooftop through the discomfort. She was hunched against the pedestal of the opera house's Apollo – intending to go nowhere for quite some time – when a voice was carried on the wind:

"A lady shouldn't see something like it, that's why."

A surge of recognition flooded Erika's bloodstream at the sound of Christian's voice. In the same instant, the flood soured as his words indicated he was speaking to someone. The identity of his companion was confirmed the moment she spoke:

"At least say what's happened," Rachel's voice answered. "It was madness back there."

"What's happened?" Christian's voice was laced with distress. "A woman has been murdered!"

Erika winced and rose to her feet, just enough to peer around the pedestal without drawing attention. Christian, still costumed as the Count, was pacing about like a lunatic. Rachel stood nearby, eyes wide, hugging her arms to brace against the wind.

"The Mirage," Christian muttered, "it was the Mirage. They all know, but they dare not say it. Who knows who will be next…"

"Stop living in your mother's folktales!" Rachel snapped, stopping Christian cold. "A serious crime has been committed, and you blame that ghost of yours?" She cast him a cross look and turned towards the rooftop entrance. "I need to tell my father about this."

"Wait, please," Christian seized Rachel's hand before she could walk too far. "Do you want to hear the truth, Rachel? The truth to all of this?"

The Viscountess faced Christian, her eyes inquisitive.

"The Mirage is not a ghost. I've known for some time." Christian took Rachel's hand into both of his. "I've held my tongue for too long, and now a woman is dead because of it."

"Christian…you're not making sense."

"The night of the gala…I was with _her_."

"The Mirage?"

"That's not what she called herself…but yes."

"The Mirage is…a woman?" Rachel's expression was wounded, but she continued: "Where did you go?"

"An 'inner sanctum' is what she called it, but a dungeon is a better description. She lives there. She was my hostess, although it's strange I say 'hostess' and not 'host'. I never imagined her to wear men's attire."

Rachel stepped closer. "I hear what you're saying," she said, stroking his arm, "and are you absolutely certain you weren't drunk?"

"Rachel," Christian groaned. He pulled away to rub the space between his eyes.

The Viscountess scowled. "You said you were drinking that night. Too much, by your own admission."

Christian heaved a sigh, his breath turning to mist.

"The rumors of a ghost simply got to you while intoxicated," Rachel's voice softened, though she was still visibly ruffled.

"I want to believe you," Christian said, raising his gaze into the distance as another gust of wind came. "I wish I could tell myself it was nothing but a dream. But, Rachel, I can't. It was too real. _She_ was too real. I remember her hand upon my cheek, and the sound of her voice. I remember she stole my breath with her gaze alone."

Enraptured, Erika listened. The way he spoke of her…something in it changed the atmosphere. The air was suddenly free of the night's chill, and the wind calmed to a gentle gust.

"I'd heard her voice so many times before," Christian continued, "she was my tutor, the one I owe my success to. But to put a face to the voice…" He trailed off, looking back to his companion. "A face…Rachel…she hardly had one."

Rachel's stare was transfixed on Christian, her expression a hybrid of discontent and pity. "Let's not talk about this any longer," she said, hugging herself with a shudder. "You're growing so pale, I fear you may faint."

"Agreed," Christian apologized, "a lady doesn't need to be hearing this. You're shivering."

"The wind," Rachel waved off his concern, although at the time there was only a whisper of a breeze running across the roof.

"I'll escort you back inside," Christian said, offering Rachel his arm, "it isn't safe for anyone to be alone tonight."

Rachel glanced at the moon-bathed statues surrounding them. Carefully, she locked her arm with Christian's.

"The Mirage doesn't exist," she said – really to no one in particular. "It was a nightmare, nothing more."

"A dream, perhaps, but not a nightmare," Christian insisted. "Nightmares have no beauty to them."

Rachel rested her temple against Christian's shoulder, her expression blank. "I won't tell my father what you've said. He'd think you mad."

"Do _you_ think me mad?"

The pair's eyes met for a moment.

"I don't see a madman," Rachel said, "I see a man who is afraid. Of what? I don't know, but it's enough of a threat in his eyes. So, it's enough of a threat in mine."

A dense laugh left Christian, as if he was happy to let its weight drop from him. "What did I ever do to deserve you?" He bowed his head and lifted Rachel's hand.

Before his lips could brush the white satin of her glove, Rachel leaned in dangerously close.

"Rachel?"

Christian and the Viscountess flushed two shades brighter. Their clouds of breath mingled in the small space between them.

"Rachel, what's this?" Christian asked as he bashfully pulled away. "You're unchaperoned. This isn't at all appropriate."

Rachel's arms fell to her sides. "But…I thought…" Her lips became thin and she averted her eyes.

Erika gave a curt nod from her hiding place. She'd been all too aware of the Viscountess de Cagney's intentions from the beginning. Seeing the other woman standing crestfallen allowed her the sweetest taste of satisfaction. Perhaps now the annoying little goose would fly south and leave her student be. Another step towards normality in Erika's world.

Until…

After a minute's hesitation, Christian spoke: "Let me try it this time."

The two came together again, this time closing all space between their bodies. Erika watched as Christian's lips met Rachel's, watched as his arms encircled her waist. A gloved hand clawed over Erika's chest as a stabbing pain plunged itself in. This ache had nothing to do with her confrontation earlier in the night. This was sharp, and it was cutting her completely raw from the inside out.

The couple left the rooftop with jaunty smiles, but time had elapsed for Erika in her current state of mind. She had no idea how many seconds, minutes, or hours that moment between the two had lasted.

The wind kicked up again, howling like a wolf around the statues. Erika's strength left her. She buckled to her knees, still gripping her heart. A watery haze distorted the world before dripping from her eyes as teardrops. What were these for? Christian was her pupil, her protégé. Who his heart belonged to was no matter of hers. Yet, it was. It very much was.

As tears wetted the underside of her mask, Erika's thoughts began a dark spiral the moonlight couldn't save her from. Every insult, every strike, every fearful stare came back to haunt her. She knew all of them to be true and deserved. Gradually, her tears of anguish gave way to tears of anger. She had trusted Christian more than she had ever trusted a human being before. She had bared her soul to him in the form of her incomplete score.

Why had she believed he would see her as anything more than the vile creature she was? Why had she believed the world may yet hold happiness for her? The world had decided her fate. From the moment of her conception, she was destined for solitude. Her attempt to defy this fate had only ended in devastation…

Devastation…

Devastation…

Erika's sobs slowly transformed into an odd sort of laughter.

Yes, devastation…

The laughter intensified. Erika stared into the glow of the moon. She shook with a manic, depraved cackle. A few more tears streaked down the visible half her face.

It all ended in devastation.


	14. Chapter 13

**Author's Note:** **Please excuse the hiatus. Enjoy!**

Chapter 13:

She didn't return below until the horizon blushed with the first rosy light of dawn. Rowing across the lake wasn't an appealing idea after such an evening, so she optioned to use the alternative route to the cellars. The light from the candelabras was low, as several of them had burnt out in her prolonged absence. Her eyes adjusted quickly as she descended the staircase to her home, allowing her to see the figure before she had reached the last step. Monsieur Giry was easy to identify, seated at her instrument with his hands folded over his cane.

The initial jolt gave Erika pause, but her surprise evaporated into frustration. "I'm in no mood to be lectured," she muttered, continuing into the room.

Giry didn't respond.

"Have you nothing better to do than sit and leer at me?" Erika asked, removing the pins from her hair. She set them on the writing desk, letting her hair fall over her shoulders. After this, she removed her gloves to light a number of additional candles.

Still there was no reply from the Box Keeper. Now visible in brighter light, his face offered no hints of emotion and his gaze followed her as she went about.

Erika gave him a sideways glance before taking a handkerchief and kneeling by the edge of the lake. She wrung the cloth after submerging it and removed her mask. The cold fabric caused her to wince as she applied it to her injury.

"Erika…" Giry's voice echoed from behind.

"Leave me be, Giry," Erika said, raising the volume of her voice. From his first word, it was clear Giry was not aiming for a pleasant conversation.

"I know what you did, Erika," Giry matched her tone, once again provoking her with the use of her name. Erika heard him stand and thump his cane on the ground as he approached her.

"Stay out of the matter," Erika insisted, rewetting the cloth. "It doesn't concern you."

Her wrist was seized as it brought the cloth to her face again. She gasped and tried to pull free of Giry's grasp.

"Doesn't concern me?" Monsieur Giry's composure was calmer than his crushing grip suggested. "You've involved my son in a murder plot. How does it not _concern_ me?"

"It wasn't a plot," Erika said. She fought to be released, even as she was pulled to her feet. "Let go!"

Resurfacing after years of lying dormant, memories of being beaten returned. The aggressive act of being grabbed had awoken senses that threw her twenty years into the past. At any moment, she expected to be struck with a closed fist or thrown to the ground. She tried to pry Giry's hand off her arm, fearful for the first time in sixteen years that he might harm her.

"You went back on your word!" Giry had lost his composure and was starting to shout, further fueling Erika's struggle. " _You have no reason to fret_ , that's precisely what you told me. How could you do this to us?"

"Let go, Giry!"

"After all we've done for you!"

"I said let go!"

"What in the Hell is wrong with - ah!"

Erika stumbled away as Giry finally freed her. It felt impossible to breathe, and she wrung her hands to stop the tremors in her fingertips. Giry was recoiling in pain, pressing his palm to the eye Erika had raked her fingernails across. Both parties glared at one another for a good while, before Giry quietly repeated himself:

"What in the Hell is wrong with you?"

"Get out," Erika growled.

Giry looked as if he was burning to say more to her. Several times his breathing changed, as if he was preparing to speak, but no more words came from him. Finally, he relented and began making his way to the stairs – his cane thudding along with him.

Erika kept her head held high as the greying man passed her. "Your assistance is not needed any longer," she said after him, her inflection void of feeling. "Neither you, nor your son, will show your faces here again."

Giry cast another livid glare over his shoulder. "I won't allow Marc anywhere near this place. Not after this."

"It seems you're an intelligent man after all," Erika said, turning to look her old ally in the eye. "And take care to remember, _monsieur_ , I know what is said within these walls."

When the door at the top of the steps slammed shut, the echo filled the room and traveled over the lake – continuing to bounce off the walls on the other side. Erika retrieved her mask from the edge of the water, glimpsing her reflection in its tranquil surface. She lingered there for a moment, quietly contemplating what was looking back. The ivory mask was clutched against her chest, like a toy held close by a distressed child.

She wasn't a helpless child any longer. The little girl of the past, the one the Girys had found, had not existed for several years. The entity she now was did not belong to human kind. It didn't rely on others to exist. It was the rightful place of one who was never among the world of man.

Erika watched her reflection change as she once more positioned the mask over her face.

It was what she had become. It – she – was the Mirage of the Opera.


	15. Chapter 14

Chapter 14:

Whatever scrutiny there was of the scene shifter's death, it came to a close rather quickly. The paper boys were hawking the headlines just two days after the incident: _Tragedy at the Opera Populaire_ , and _Performance Cancelled Due to Backstage Suicide_.

Erika observed the news boys standing atop their crates on the corner. The headline print was large enough to read from a distance, and she found herself concealing a grin behind her scarf as she crossed the icy street. The sheer incompetence of it all both amused and relieved her. She was unsure if Florence and Andrée truly believed this story; or even if they had invented it. For the time being, she would delight in the fact she was secure once again. The public wouldn't demand justice for a self-inflicted death.

Snowflakes collected between the divots in the pavement, adding to the blanket of white that had been slowly covering Paris since the early morning hours. Erika tilted her head, peering past the rim of her hood at the overcast morning sky. She didn't venture outdoors in daylight very often, and certainly not on the street level. She felt too exposed, even on such days when the sun was nothing but a faint glow beyond the clouds. That day, however, she didn't have a choice.

Despite her most valiant efforts, hunger had forced Erika to realize she wasn't quite as independent as she thought she was. A portion of her salary had always gone to Giry for the purpose of providing her with at least one solid meal a day. Now that was no longer an option, and the task had fallen to her alone.

An oversized travel coat from the costuming department was enough to disguise her masculine attire. The hood from what was meant as a sorcerer's costume had been enough to obscure her face when she kept her head down. For added measure, she'd wrapped a woolen scarf around her mouth and the nose of the mask. It gave the illusion of a completed face beneath the hood.

Using the excuse that she was ill to avoid unnecessary small talk, Erika had purchased a few days' worth of bread from the first bakery she came across. Now on the walk back, she had regrets over not finding a more diverse market and buying whatever fruits and vegetables it sold. She didn't want to push her luck too far, though. Not on her first outing alone.

She'd been outside several times before, but never alone. Back in the days when she was still small enough to conceal, Giry would sometimes sneak her and Marc out of the building after it closed for the evening. These day trips – or, rather, night trips – would often be no more than a stroll down the nearby streets; but on rare occasions those streets would lead to a deserted park for Erika and her foster brother to romp about in. Of course, Marc had always been reluctant to have one-on-one contact with her. Even so, such wide open space was irresistible to a boy that young. Yes, but those outings had stopped as Erika grew more into a young woman. Erika would never admit to it, but a part of her did miss them.

After a careful scope of the area to ensure no one was watching, Erika stole into the smaller side entrance of the opera house. Finally free of the wind chill, she removed the scarf to allow warmer air into her lungs. Making her way down to the cellars, she noticed how oddly quiet her environment was. Even the building above her seemed to creak much less than average. Perhaps after Josephine's body was discovered, production had been put on a hiatus to allow for investigation. A silent opera house in between seasons was expected. It was off-putting for such little noise to be around her during a week of performances.

' _La Muta'_ hadn't closed, to the best of her knowledge. It wasn't due to conclude its run until the following week. Management had best not end the show prematurely, for its own sake. Erika had not trained up Christian and fought to have him in the spotlight just so they could…

…Christian…

She had avoided thoughts of her pupil these past two days. Any time his name or his image appeared in her mind, a sharp agony would scrape the inside of her chest. Her student, the one person she had made privy to all of her secrets, had betrayed his master. She had watched him that night as he poured her secrets out to another. She had watched him that night as he…as he…she didn't want to dwell on it any longer.

The bread was turning stale and had lost most of its flavor. No wonder it had been so inexpensive. It mattered not, as long as it was enough to fill her stomach for another day. Erika had always regarded silence as a nuisance that often threatened to kill her from lack of auditory stimulation – not to mention boredom. This silence, the stifling calm around her, felt heavy. Not even notes played at a forte volume on her instrument could penetrate it. As fervent as it was, her music was swallowed by the air itself. It never seemed to reach her ears. Intrusive thoughts kept returning without any distractions to chase them away. They were becoming more frequent as the hours of the day waned:

There had been such revulsion when he'd seen the bare flesh of her face. Her very appearance had extinguished the light of naïve wonderment in his eyes. She'd watched it die with pleasure, too intoxicated on her anger. Now, she felt she would give anything to see it there again. Never before had anyone looked upon her with that much untainted admiration and - damn her - she'd ruined it. How surreal it was that he hadn't even been expecting to see what he had, when entire crowds had once paid for the spectacle. She wasn't what he had wanted to see. He'd been expecting to see the Angel of Music. Instead, he'd seen the Mirage.

Finally, she reached her breaking point and could take the silence no longer. She had to put an end to it. She had to anchor the thoughts in her head to something tangible, something that would satiate them with what they endlessly craved. Before she knew it, she found herself at her writing desk, warming her ink. She attempted the letter several times. The remains of failed drafts lay ripped and crumpled at her feet as she finally signed her message:

 _"Monsieur Daaé,_

 _You have exceeded my expectations, and I am immensely pleased. Your starring role in 'La Muta' is sure to secure your career at the Opera Populaire for many a season to come. Quite a far cry from the laughing stock chorus boy you once were. I'm certain your mother would be very proud of you. She always knew you had a strong voice, correct?_

 _I feel it is vital for you to resume your voice lessons. I've heard what can become of your voice should it fall into disuse, and I intend to prevent that by all means necessary. You need not be concerned; I do not require a response to this letter. If you wish to maintain the sublime quality of your vocals, wait for me in your dressing room in one week's time – after the final performance of 'La Muta'. We will have further discussion on the matter then._

 _Until we meet again,_

 _Your Teacher and Angel"_

* * *

The curtain covering the body-length window into the dressing room barred any possible light from entering the passageway. Erika sat in wait, her back against the opposite wall. The finale of ' _La Muta_ ' had been rumbling through the walls as she made her way there. Christian's answer to her offer would be known soon enough.

Throughout the week, Erika had deliberately avoided leaving the third cellar as much as she could. Allowing things to settle down upstairs after the little fiasco would be the most beneficial to her circumstance. It negated the risk of any more 'compromising situations' to arise. The only excursion she had needed to take – aside from visiting the marketplace every few days – was one after-hours journey to the managerial office. It had been solely for the sake of finding Christian's mailing address in the records.

While searching through the papers, however, Erika had stumbled across something rather interesting. An opened envelope was sitting on the corner of the desk, addressed to both Florence and Andrée from the Viscount de Chagny. The letter within informed that the Viscount would not be financing any more of the opera's productions for the remainder of the season. He had mentioned something about a damaged public image and a threat to future ticket sales.

Rummaging through the drawers produced recent financial records that led Erika to conclude the season would be ending early. The professional in her wanted to scream, but she immediately found a positive in the assumption the de Chagny family would not be frequenting the theatre for some time.

Christian could once again be completely hers, if only he accepted her offer.

"Are you there?" a slightly muffled voice called into the darkness from the opposite side of the curtain.

The moment of truth had arrived. Erika stood and gently pulled the curtain aside to peer into the room beyond. Christian was seated at the table, looking expectantly towards the mirror – the portal into the world behind the walls.

"I am," she answered, just loud enough to be heard. Although she had predicted herself to toss aside the curtain and enter once she laid eyes on her student again, she found herself hesitating. When last Christian had seen her, it hadn't been all too enjoyable for him. Erika could see that the bruises around his mouth had healed, but she had not forgotten who left them there. She doubted he had, either.

"Forgive me," Christian said, moving his hands to his knees. "I know not what to call you."

" _I can no longer be his Angel_ ," Erika's own words returned to trouble her. She had been more than correct in that notion, but the sting wasn't any less painful.

"You…do not need to call me by any name," Erika tossed her voice into the room. "Have you considered my offer?"

Christian cast his gaze to the floor and was silent, contemplative. "I have," he finally said. "I know it's been some time since my last lesson." That was all he uttered before falling quiet again.

"I know you fear me," Erika said, the words out from under her control. "Command me to, and I'll never seek you out again." She bit down hard on her lip.

Christian didn't react for a minute longer, and Erika began to worry. At last, he raised his head and looked directly into the mirror again. "I wish to resume my lessons," he said with decisive nod. He gulped, betraying a less-than-confident mindset. "As your student."

It was Erika's turn to take a pause. "I swear you will never hear from me again if you just say the word."

She was giving him every opportunity in the world to run. If he had arrived purely out of fear and did not truly want her near, she would know it now. She had to know. She _needed_ to know, and she was braced for the answer that was sure to come.

"I'm certain of it," Christian confirmed with another nod. "You've blessed me with…quite a remarkable opportunity. I should thank you for it."

"You most certainly should," Erika said. Stilling herself with a deep breath, she continued: "Go now. Arrive at the east entrance tomorrow by the hour of three. Take care that no one sees you."

She wished she didn't have to wait until the following day to be in Christian's presence again. She didn't want to go back to the silence below. It was enough to have someone hear her voice, and have a voice to hear in return. He was enough, and he was all she wanted.


	16. Chapter 15

Chapter 15:

No unnecessary words had been spoken between master and student during their first lesson in the flesh. Professionalism was all the master could maintain at that point. What more could she do? All other facades had been lifted by her student's hands, both literally and figuratively.

Erika contemplated the dull ivory keys of her instrument as Christian prepared to depart. They would be rendered mute the instant he left her presence, silence returning to asphyxiate her. She needed a voice to hear that wasn't coming from the abyss inside her skull. She needed to be answered in a voice that wasn't her own.

Erika observed Christian's movements from the corner of her eye, and he likely felt the indirect gaze upon his back as she said:

"You know who I am."

Startled by his teacher's sudden declaration, Christian looked over in her direction. "They whisper of a ghost," he stated, "but I know the Mirage is no such thing."

Erika hummed at the back of her throat. "Quite so."

Turning, she was able to catch Christian's gaze for the shortest of moments before he glanced away. He hadn't made direct eye contact with her all afternoon. The mask upon her face was useless. He saw through it, now.

"If they think me a ghost, then so be it," Erika said. It was an odd attempt to make idle chatter, and an unspoken attempt to prolong his stay. "A mirage is what I am, appearing different to each pair of eyes. A ghost to some, a demon to most, and – I was – an angel to one."

Christian took his weathered coat from where it hung on the grandfather clock. His jaw was set, the clenched muscles slightly defining the curve of his face. " _Madame_ ," his tone was blunt yet yielding, "you fabricated a lie that was unatonable."

"Dishonest? Yes, very much so," Erika replied, slowly rising from the bench. "Although, I would hardly classify my actions as 'unatonable'. Allow me to ask you, Monsieur Daaé, had I approached you as I am – as what you see before you now – would you have submitted yourself as my student?"

Christian had no verbal response to give. The furrow of his brow was his only reaction.

Sighing, Erika held her hands out to either side of her. "Ah, I fear I've predicted your reply. Those of the feminine form hold sway only in the imaginations of man."

"Woman or not," Christian said, "to defile my faith, my mother's memory, in such a way…it was blasphemous!"

"What is blasphemy to one that God has forsaken?" Erika continued on, unfazed. "I simply did what I had to. A frail young man, newly thrown into the maw of the world, would sooner abide by the guidance of his mother's spirit than one such as me. Am I not correct in saying this?"

Christian straightened, slipping his father's coat over his shoulders. "No, _Madame_ , you are not."

"Oh?" Erika prompted, pressing the palms of her hands together. She feigned insult, but in truth she was elated. Christian was once again braving to look her in the eye.

"I've chosen to return," he stated. He sounded stern enough, but his voice contained a fiber of meekness and the hesitation that came with it. "I've remained your student, even…even knowing who you are."

"Knowing what I am?" Erika brushed her fingertips along the edge of her mask.

Intently, Christian's gaze focused on the mask – perhaps fearful that she would remove it. "Yes, even so."

In a voice like black velvet, she asked: "Even knowing what I can do to you?"

The wide-eyed expression that altered Christian's features was the same he had worn the night of the scene-shifter's death. Erika imagined being able to wipe the blot of the event from Christian's memory. If only she could have his heart, and expertly reshape it into what it once was in regards to her.

"Yes, _Madame_ ," Christian spoke up again, using the title he had apparently decided on for his tutor, "I'm well aware of what you're capable of. Not a soul in this opera is unaware."

An offer to escort Monsieur Daaé upstairs was in order, but it never came to fruition. Erika sensed her pupil was not at all relaxed with the idea of being followed to the world above, like a mourner followed from the crypt by a walking corpse. Even so, it was impossible for him to find his way without her assistance.

"You've been wise in your decision," Erika continued, needlessly rearranging the miscellaneous items placed on her organ. "I'll see to it that you feature as lead tenor in every production this company presents until the end of its days. A man must stake his claim if his name is to be of any repute."

She broke the void of her pause with a dry chuckle. "To be frank with you, my dear, I find it unlikely you could have done so on your own."

She heard Christian release a heavy sigh, and looked to see him shifting his weight uncomfortably as he buttoned his coat.

"I'm tempted to say you are once again incorrect," he said, "but I cannot say it with certainty. My father never made a name for himself, being the street performer he was. Mother, God rest her soul…" He crossed himself. "She had only her violin to provide for us. After a life spent surviving from one performance to the next…there was so little either of them had to leave me."

Christian stilled himself. "Had you not intervened, it's possible I would be starving penniless in the street. I cannot, and will not, deny that I am in your debt."

"Hush now," Erika tutted, setting down the inane item she had been turning over in her hands as Christian spoke. "No more talk of that, I can't bear to imagine you in such a plight. You will have the highest honors I can bestow, and all I ask in return is your obedience."

"Obedience in what way?"

"Arrive for me at the same hour every day. I intend to continue your lessons until the company's next season begins." She scoffed, swiping a bit of dust from her sleeve. "That is, _if_ the company has a following season. With the Viscount's patronage now absent, management requires a miracle to crawl from the edge of bankruptcy."

"The Viscount's patronage? He's withdrawn?" Christian inquired. The situation was clearly fresh news to him. Of course it was. Florence and Andrée hadn't told their cast and crew that their livelihoods were in jeopardy. Perhaps they were clutching at fool's gold, trying to scrape together francs for another season. Or, they were avoiding the outcome of every employee searching for work elsewhere.

"Regrettably, he has. It seems our mishap with a certain crew member has driven him away." She wasn't sure what possessed her to approach Christian as she spoke. It was possibly some imploring desire to have him believe her as she said: "Of all the nights to end herself…why did the woman have to choose a night of what is sure to be an iconic performance?"

"A truly devastating tragedy," Christian said with a nod, taking a subtle step back as his teacher neared.

Erika halted her advance. Whatever she was trying to convince him of, it was a fruitless endeavor. She stood tall and folded her hands in front of her. "Well, at least you will be in much better company from now onward."

" _Madame_?"

"The young de Chagny seductress will have no place amidst my cast any longer. She and her father have no business with us and, as far as I'm concerned, hers is a good riddance."

"Mademoiselle de Chagny is no such thing," Christian zealously insisted. "I have known her for years, and she has always been of the utmost morals."

Erika calmly held up her hand to pause him. "I will hear no more about the Viscountess, Christian. That is my final word on the matter."

Seeming to recall what had been said earlier about obedience, Christian lowered his gaze and only replied with: "I understand."

"It will serve you well to remember, my dear, that Adam fell from grace alongside Eve."


	17. Chapter 16

Chapter 16:

The meal she had provided may not have been extravagant, but it was as suitable as she could manage. Bresaola and weisslacker cheese from the delicatessen, paired with ripe produce from the market she had found the confidence to enter. After the day's session, she had set the basket containing the mediocre feast on her writing desk and invited her student to help himself to whatever he pleased. With the season closed early, his savings were likely strained. She would see to it herself that he had at least one good meal that week.

Erika observed from the distance of her bench as Christian performed the queer action of rolling the scarlet slices of cured meat into cylinders before eating them. A full month of lessons, and she was still fascinated by the everyday habits he displayed without ever realizing it. To fill the uncomfortable silence, she retrieved her work-in-progress and began to play an aria she was currently pouring the most effort into.

"I haven't forgotten how perfectly your voice suits my score," Erika said, her keys lingering on the end of a measure. "I often dwell on it as I compose."

"I'm flattered," she heard Christian say.

" _Dona Juanita_ has been plaguing my mind since I was at the tender age of thirteen," Erika stated as she turned a page of the music. "Though, thankfully, it has matured over the years – just as I have."

Christian dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief. "If I may ask, what do you intend to do with this score once it's completed?"

She simply had to laugh aloud. "Once it's completed? Oh, I don't suspect it ever will be."

Her student seemed to be perplexed. "I beg your pardon, _Madame_ , but after so many years…wouldn't the score be at least finished?"

"The score has been finished several times over," Erika corrected. "It will likely never be _completed_. The plot thread remains intact, but the music snakes around it like a vine. It forever twists and changes the longer I allow it to grow. I nurture it, but this opus has a will of its own."

"You speak of it as if it were a child," Christian mused, his voice lifting in just the slightest hint of a chuckle.

Erika paid attention to the subtle shift in his tone. He had little more than smiled in her presence, and the trace of laughter sounded - to her - like genuine amusement. "My music is certainly the closest thing to a child I'll produce," she said, "and much like a child, it will be my perpetual work-in-progress."

She could have created a comparison between abandoning such a project and abandoning a child…but she decided against it.

"As a prime example," she said as she resumed playing, "this damnable harmony. Regardless of how I rewrite, it refuses to satisfy me. Positively maddening!"

"I can imagine the frustration," Christian agreed, returning his leftovers to the basket. He was unaware of the immense rarity of what his teacher then requested:

"Will you care to assist me?"

Christian refused an offer to join her on the bench, but he listened as she played the troublesome measure. He didn't respond, so she adamantly repeated the notes. When still no opinion was given, she brought her hands down on the keyboard and turned towards him.

"I'm expecting a word from you, Monsieur Daaé."

"It must be getting late," Christian suggested, his attention suddenly fixated on the ceiling. "You insisted I stay longer than usual tonight, but I must be heading home."

Erika snapped her fingers to regain his eye contact. "I was not impressed with your lesson this evening. You're going flat, and this tells me you haven't been practicing as you should."

Christian brought a hand to his throat, massaging the vocal chords.

"Therefore," Erika continued, "I believe we should extend your training tonight. You will sing Amintas in this aria as many times as I instruct. You will return home when I feel you have made up for lost practice."

" _Madame_ ," Christian said, his brow knitted, "I assure you, there has been no practice lost-."

"Your teacher has made herself clear, Christian."

"...very well, then."

And so they carried on precisely like that for at least an hour more. Erika was a spider that evening, keeping her protégé close by entwining him in silken chords for as long as she wished. While she had him in her musical snare, she decided to amuse herself. Changing the order and tempo of the aria without warning as he sang, she toyed with Christian's voice like a mischievous child.

He stumbled over verses and lost his place the first several times she tested him, but Erika's lashing beratement after each mistake quickly remedied the issue. She listened as his cadence followed her rises and falls, adapting to her changes nearly the instant she made them. It was a perversion of the aria she had created, but - oh - how she thrilled to slice her work apart with him. She reveled in how the melody she knew by heart was reborn in his voice. Before she realized, she was following him - adapting to the small changes she detected from him. Her Amintas.

Struck, Erika rushed from her bench and threw open the drawers of her writing desk. Pulling fresh slips of paper from inside, she moved the food basket aside and fervently began putting ink to the pages. She sat hunched over her work, pen violently scratching each idea that Christian had planted into existence.

"A-Are you alright, _Madame_?" Christian asked, gingerly touching his hand to her shoulder.

"A moment!" Erika snapped, brushing his hand away. She was not interrupted again.

Erika allowed her pen to slide off the final page as her momentum came to a natural stop. She contemplated the fruit of her labor with a mute sense of astonishment. It was crude. No matter about that. She would refine it later.

It was the reborn aria - the product of two great talents intertwining.

" _Madame_?"

Erika didn't turn to look at him, instead too focused on tending the score on her desk. She lifted each of the still-wet pages as gently as any other woman would her newborn child. Only when each was safely set out to dry did she turn and acknowledge her guest again.

"Are you well?" Christian inquired, concern evident in his features. "I thought you possessed!"

"Don't refer to such an event as 'possession'," Erika said, "I was merely struck by the will of a muse." She noticed a dark lock of her hair had fallen out of place, and she pushed it behind her ear.

"What did this 'muse' say?"

"Did you not also hear it?"

Christian blinked at her. "I...I'm afraid not."

"Oh, such a shame," Erika sighed. "If you are to be involved in my creation of _Dona Juanita_ from here on out, I must enlighten you."

* * *

The hour must have been late, for sleep was heavy in Christian's eyes as he sat across from her at the writing desk. Erika had promised to bring him upstairs the moment she had made him privy to the plot of her opera. Unable to find his own way, he had no other choice but to stay and listen to her recount the tale of Dona Juanita:

"With their bargain, Juanita could have any man she desired. Yet, Lucifer warned her: should she fall in love with any man she seduced, she would lose everything her power had gained…and she would pay the price of her soul." Erika paused her tale to eat a bite of cheese. "Juanita acquired wealth through her many suitors, and acquired a title by wedding an elderly lord."

"Amintas?" Christian asked, familiar with the prominent male character that appeared so often in the score's lyrics.

"Ah, I fear not," Erika sighed. "Amintas is the man who catches Juanita's eye…and captures her heart."

"A forbidden love," Christian mused with a small smile. His eyes were distant, clearly thinking of something…yes, some _thing_ beyond the cellars. "How Shakespearian."

"All great minds are fed by the minds before them."

"How does it all end?" Christian asked, poorly suppressing a yawn. "In comedy or in tragedy?"

"I haven't decided just yet," Erika said with a light shrug. "The finale has always eluded me in one way or another." She selected a bright peach from the basket and opened a drawer in her desk. From within, she retrieved a fruit knife – one of the few utensils she owned. "The one thing I do know about the finale," she said, deliberately sinking the curved blade into the flesh of the fruit, "is that Amintas falls under Juanita's otherworldly charms."

"Does he?"

Erika glanced up at Christian and noticed that he was watching her carve open the peach. "Yes. It was fated to happen. He was the one she wanted more than any other before him." The knife continued to glide, piercing the soft skin and sending a thick stream of juice down Erika's wrist.

She continued, all the while observing Christian as his eyes blearily followed the motion of the blade: "It will cost Juanita everything she owns. It will likely cost her soul. Yet, she will do everything to pursue him…to win him…"

The carved half of the peach fell to the desktop. Erika reached out and touched Christian's face, tilting his chin so she could look at him properly in the candlelight. "Because she loves him."

Focus suddenly returned to Christian's eyes. His Adam's apple bobbed. He moistened his chapped lips and nodded. "A compelling plot indeed," he stated, sliding away from her touch.


	18. Chapter 17

Chapter 17:

The Christmas holiday had come and gone, and New Year's Day was soon to be upon them. The welcoming of a new year was of little importance to Erika, only serving as a cue to date her papers ahead. It brought no significant change, the beginning of another twelve months. Yet, as she had greeted Christian at the eastern entrance that afternoon, a very startling change had met her eyes.

Christian's hair had been cut, cut and styled in a manner to suit a dignified gentleman. Erika had nearly mistaken him for a stranger, but as soon as she realized this gentleman was her pupil she ushered him inside. Her student's sudden change in appearance hadn't mattered at the time. No, Erika was much too eager to bring him downstairs and continue what they had begun weeks ago.

Floored by how his influence had transformed a piece of her music, Erika had since been supplementing their lessons with impromptu experimentation with other scores from her work-in-progress. The results, she found to be astounding. In him, each melody was torn asunder and made anew. Each passing day added more pages to the newborn _Dona Juanita_ , and deepened the bond she sensed growing between them. Although the process seemed taxing for her student, often leaving him out of breath and weary from the hours of standing, Erika felt it connected them in a way she had never known. Together, they were creating a work of art and – to her – it felt as intimate as giving birth. It was their child, the product of their voices and minds intertwining, and it bound her to him.

"I've never heard anything quite like the pieces you've written," Christian said as Erika set aside a fresh page to dry. "If you'll pardon my saying so, it's shocking that a woman could compose something so…." He trailed off and cleared his throat.

"If there is anything an audience appreciates, it's an act with bite," Erika replied. "The public enjoys being shocked, I know that very well."

Christian didn't reply.

"I guarantee you," she went on, "were the company to produce a spectacle such as this, it would solve its financial woes. Despite what the papers would say about it, human beings will willfully pay to be offended."

"You very well _could_ be correct."

She looked at him. "You're full of flattery today. Any particular reason?"

"I was hoping for an early dismissal."

Well, that was certainly blunt. Erika looked to her grandfather clock. An hour before their agreed dismissal time. "And why should I permit that?"

Christian hesitated, his gaze flittering about before returning to focus on his tutor. "I have business with the Viscount de Chagny."

Erika's expression turned cynical. "Why?" The word seeped between her teeth like venom.

"I had an audience with him this morning," Christian was all too eager to answer. He was quick to add: "About his patronage. I was hoping to convince him to reinstate it."

She was watching his body language with each word he breathed, surveying for any hint of deception. "And you were successful?"

"No, _Madame_. Not in the slightest, but that is why I need to arrive on time to this second meeting. If I'm late, there may never be another chance."

He sounded genuine enough, but the way he carried himself indicated some things were being left unsaid. A part of her always wondered why her student was so neglectful of his practice when at home, but she had never allowed herself to ponder on it for too long.

"A noble cause." Wary of just how much trust to put in him, Erika gave Christian a single nod of approval. "Very well then, you may go. But I expect you back an hour early tomorrow afternoon. All that's needed in my score is a finale, and I'm anxious to see what blooms on the pages."

"Yes. As am I, _Madame_ ," Christian's words were impatient as he dressed himself for the weather outside. He sighed as he tossed a wool scarf around his neck. "As am I."

* * *

Whatever it was that was being left unsaid, Erika wanted to know. She trailed Christian at a safe distance, following the outlines his shoes left in the freshly fallen snow. The gutters were swathed in grey cascades of ice, melted snow that had frozen before making it to the sewer. She kept her gait steady to avoid slipping and giving away her presence. Christian was already wary of being followed, checking over his shoulder every so often. When he did, Erika became still as a startled rat – her black coat merging her with the shadows of the street lamps.

It didn't take long before she realized he was not walking towards the Viscount's address, nor was he walking towards his own. Nothing about this was right.

Finally, he came to the Seine. Thousands of clustered, frozen floats of ice silently moved downriver, towards the silhouette of Notre Dame in the distance. On the cobblestone walking path at the river's edge, a hooded figure sat on a bench amongst the barren trees.

"Rachel!" Christian's voice carried through the quiet nighttime air as he jogged towards the waiting figure.

Erika halted as the Viscountess lowered her riding hood and looked in Christian's direction. Staying low, Erika snuck behind the wide trunk of a tree and watched this clandestine meeting unfold.

Christian grabbed Rachel into a tight embrace as they met halfway down the path. A quickly shared kiss, and their laughter rang out across the water.

"Did you ask my father?" Rachel enquired – her voice reaching Erika as a slight echo.

"I tried, _min älskling_ , I did," Christian said, kissing Rachel's delicate fingers, "but he refused."

A white cloud fluttered from Rachel's mouth as a deep sigh escaped her. Erika thought she heard the words: "That's what I was afraid of." Rachel looked out across the icy river, her arms over her chest. "Does he know about our meetings?"

"I was not about to tell your father about those," Christian said, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist. "If he knew I was seeing you without a chaperone..."

"Oh, Devil take it!" Rachel cried. "It may not be the ideal courtship, but I've never been happier!"

"I did everything I could to look the part of a suitable bachelor," Christian said, his chin resting on her red braids, "but he simply does not see me as worthy of you."

"Do you remember Phillis, Christian?" Rachel asked, tilting her head up. "My older sister?"

"A bit, yes. What of her?"

"Two years ago, my father married her off to a Naval captain. A charming fellow, yes, but there were so many suitors before him. Only the best choice was permitted to court her, and she now lives with him in Bordeaux." Another cloud rose from Rachel's lips. "Now I'm afraid my father will want the same of me, regardless of who my heart belongs to."

Erika heard Christian chuckle as he leaned in to kiss Rachel's cheek.

"You've fallen for a pauper, and he wants you to have a prince."

"Precisely."

A moment of silence. The only sounds Erika could hear were the soft creaking of ice in the river and the blood in her aching ears.

Christian said something into Rachel's ear.

"I would brave a hut in the worst of Siberia if it meant I was with you," Rachel said.

"What about a cottage in Sweden?" Christian asked, turning Rachel to face him.

Rachel chortled, her nose crinkling. "That seems the preferable option."

"Wonderful, then," Christian beamed as he lowered himself to one knee.

From within his pocket, he retrieved an item too small to see at that distance, but there was no guess as to what it was. "It was my mother's wedding ring," he said, holding the small glinting object between his fingers. "I can't afford anything more fashionable, but…if you'll have me…I want to make you my wife with it."

Rachel dropped to her knees in front of him. Christian appeared stunned as his prospective bride took his hands into her own. Inaudible words were exchanged between them, followed by a cry of joy from Christian, and a very enthusiastic kiss.

"I promise, we'll leave the city just as soon as I have enough saved to support us," Christian said, slipping the band onto Rachel's finger. "I'm determined to keep my career on the right path. I've been enduring further training to keep my voice in shape, and it has been far from pleasant at times." He took Rachel's hand. "But I'm doing it all with us in mind!"

Erika shuddered. Christian's words were icicles, piercing her and leaving only a cold sting in their wake as they melted into her body. They had killed her right then and there, but she didn't feel so much as a twinge.

"Yes, but until then," Rachel said, reaching around her head to undo her necklace, "Father can't know about this." Erika observed her as the Viscountess pocketed the gem that was originally hanging from the chain, and replaced it with the ring. "As far as anyone knows, I've bought new jewelry."

"Marvelous, _älskling_ ," Christian praised, kissing the place between her eyes. "Can I still expect to see you at the celebration?"

"If you can recognize me, then yes," Rachel joked, securing the engagement ring around her throat. "And don't worry, Father didn't want his invitation this year."

Erika had seen enough, and she quietly left them to themselves. The icicle words seemed to have numbed her to the core, leaving her unable to feel the fatal wound inflicted to her. Likely, when she was back in the relative warmth of her home, she would thaw and realize how deeply she had been cut. Yes, that would happen; but in that moment she didn't complain of the inability to feel.

Let the Viscountess believe in whatever fantasy she wished. What harm could it bring for just a few days more? She would come to realize that Christian had already been claimed by a marriage of sorts. They both would.

When Christian had asked her about the celebration, Erika had told him such things were no place for her to be. Now that she thought of it, she was long overdue to meet her theatre's ensemble in the flesh. New Year was, after all, a chance to start anew.


End file.
